“The artist of the Faun, dearest aunt,” broke in the girl, who watched with intense anxiety the changing expressions of the youth's features.
“Your voice even more than your features brings up the past,” said the lady, as a deadly pallor spread over her own face, and her lips trembled as she spoke. “Will you not tell me something of your history?”
“When you have told me the reason for which you ask it, perhaps I may,” said the youth, half sternly.
“There, there!” cried she, wildly, “in every tone, in every gesture, I trace this resemblance. Come nearer to me; let me see your hands.”
“They are seamed and hardened with toil, lady,” said the youth, as he showed them.
“And yet they look as if there was a time when they did not know labor,” said she, eagerly.
An impatient gesture, as if he would not endure a continuance of this questioning, stopped her, and she said in a faint tone,—
“I ask your pardon for all this. My excuse and my apology are that your features have recalled a time of sorrow more vividly than any words could. Your voice, too, strengthens the illusion. It may be a mere passing impression; I hope and pray it is. Come, Ida, come with me. Do not leave this, sir, till we speak with you again.” So saying, she took her niece's arm and left the room.