"Oh, thank you, thank you," she cried, clapping her hands. Her hands! Cyril had forgotten them for the moment, and it was through them that he had hoped to establish her identity. He looked at them searchingly. No ring encircled the wedding finger, nor did it show the depression which the constant wearing of one invariably leaves. The girl was evidently unmarried. Those long, slender, well-kept hands certainly did not look as if they could belong to a servant, but he reflected that a seamstress' work was not of a nature to spoil them. Only the forefinger of her left hand would probably bear traces of needle pricks. He leaned eagerly forward.
"What are you looking at?" she asked.
"At your hands, my dear," he tried to speak lightly.
"What is the matter with them?" She held them out for his inspection. Yes, it was as he had expected—her forefinger was rough. She was Priscilla Prentice. Everything had fore-warned him of this conclusion, yet in his heart of hearts he had not believed it possible till this moment.
"Don't you like my hands?" she asked, as she regarded them with anxious scrutiny, evidently trying to discover why they failed to find favour in the sight of her lord.
"They are—" He checked himself; he had almost added—the prettiest hands in the world; but he mustn't say such things to her, not under the circumstances. "They are very pretty, only you have sewn so much that you have quite spoiled one little finger."
"Sewn?" She seemed struck with the idea. "Sew? I should like to sew. I know I can."
Further proof of her identity, if he needed it.
"Well, you must get nurse to find you something on which to exercise your talents—only you must be careful not to prick yourself so much in future."
"I will try, husband," she answered meekly, as she gazed solemnly at the offending finger.