'She is just that,' said Mrs. Jenkins enthusiastically. 'Sit down here, Clara, and have a good look at it.'
The sisters placed themselves side by side upon an ottoman which commanded a good view of the portrait, at which Miss Montressor continued steadfastly to gaze. All doubt was over now, all hope that she had been mistaken was at an end; the miniature she had seen in the watch that day as she paced the terrace at Richmond was but a reduced copy without the veil, and the face that looked mildly, beaming down upon her out of its gilded frame, was as fresh and fair as the roses in the feet. Miss Montressor was not of a classic turn of mind; her education had not gone far in any direction, nor at all in that; she did not refer the suggestiveness of the open scissors in the woman's hand, about to snip the fresh young life of the beautiful rose, to any recollection of the Pareae; but it had a certain something in it which impressed her, something of suspicion which filled her eyes with tears unseen by Mrs. Jenkins.
'Is there a portrait of Mr. Griswold?' she asked.
'Only a small one, half-sized, and since he went away Mrs. Griswold has had it moved to her bedroom. It hangs on the wall just over her dressing-table, and opposite the foot of her bed. It is the first thing she must see in the morning when she opens her eyes. They say it is uncommonly like him; it is painted by the same artist who did this one; but Mrs. Griswold will have it the picture in her bracelet--much handsomer and much younger--is more like Mr. Griswold.'
'Does any one of her family stay with her while he is away?' was Miss Montressor's next question.
'There is not any family. She has no relatives, I am told, not only in New York, but in all the world; she was an orphan when Mr. Griswold married her, and I do not believe he has any relatives; for I have never seen any nor heard them spoken of, either by her or among the servants.'
'That's lonely for Mrs. Griswold. Has she much company while he is away? But I think you said not yesterday?'
'O dear, no she leads the quietest life that any lady could live. Many a one would think it very dull; but she doesn't, what with her books, and music, and baby, and her letters to Mr. Griswold. She is sometimes sorrowful, but never dull. She has some visitors at times, but I don't think she cares for them--one person is pretty much the same to her as another, when it is not Mr. Griswold--and one day she said to me, "I have no intimates, and my husband has very few for so wonderfully sociable a man, and such a general favourite as he is."'
'Then there is no one to take care of her in particular?' said Miss Montressor; 'for she is young, you know, to be left alone with so much to look after and to do as there must be in the care of all this,'--with a comprehensive sweep of her arm, intended to take in all the household goods at once.
'O, no, there is no one to take care of her,' said Mrs. Jenkins; 'but she can take very good care of herself. She always wishes to do, and she always does, what is right and good and kind towards every one.'