"Are you—like her?" He had contrived to throw into his eyes a merry challenge—against her taking this as she might take it.
But Betty was too absorbed to be flippant, or even merrily self-conscious.
"Why, I don't know, but I don't think so—except my eyes. Every one says my eyes are like hers."
Burke Denby got suddenly to his feet and walked quite across the room. Apparently he was examining a rare old Venetian glass Tear Vase, especially prized by him for its associations. In reality he was trying to master the tumult within him. He had now not one remaining doubt. This stupendous thing was really so. She was his Elizabeth; his—Betty. Yet there remained still one more test. He must ask about her—father. And for this he must especially brace himself: he could imagine what Helen must have taught her—of him.
Very slowly, the vase still unconsciously clutched in his hand, Burke Denby walked back to the table and sat down.
"Well, as I said, I should like to see your mother," he smiled. "I feel that I know her already. But—your father; I don't think you have told me a thing about your father yet."
A rapt wistfulness came to the girl's face.
"Father! Oh, but I never stop talking when I get to telling of him. You see, I never knew him."
Infinite longing and tenderness were coming into the man's eyes.