"Louise, I don't know if it's a compliment to either of us—but I believe we're very much alike."
Louise gave a child's delighted chuckle, but she showed no surprise.
"That's nice, Miss Hartill." She hesitated. "Miss Hartill, did you know my Mother?"
"Mrs. Denny?" Clare hesitated.
Louise gave an impatient gesture.
"Not Mamma. My very own Mother."
"No, my dear." Clare's voice was soft.
Louise sighed.
"No one does. There are no pictures. Father was angry when I asked about her once: and Miss Murgatroyd—she was our governess—she said I had no tact. I miss her, you know, though I don't remember her. I had a nurse: she told me a little. Mother had grey eyes too, you know," said Louise, gazing into Clare's. "I expect she was rather like you."
She watched Clare a little breathlessly. There was more of tenderness in her face than many who thought they knew Clare Hartill would have credited, but no hint of awakening memory, of the recognition the child sought. She went on—