The throbbing of Alma’s heart nearly suffocated her. Her breath came quickly and gaspingly. She threw her arm around a tree for support, and leaned her head against the rough bark, while she stole another look at the stranger.
Yes, there was the same noble head, with its bright locks of golden brown waving round the broad, white forehead; the same dark blue eyes with the falcon glance; the same Grecian nose, short, proud upper lip, and rounded chin; the same face, only a little older, that daily looked down upon her from the portrait in the study. As Alma realized this truth, she felt as though her last hour of life had come, and that she was dying in a dream.
“Does your mother still live?” repeated the stranger.
“My mother still lives, if breathing means living,” answered Alma, in an expiring voice, and trembling in every limb.
The eyes of the stranger were fixed upon her—were reading her very soul. At length he spoke.
“Girl, your eyes never beheld me before, and yet—does not your instinct recognize me?”
“Oh, Heaven, my heart!” gasped the girl, leaning, pale as death, against the tree.
“Yes, your heart acknowledges him whom your eyes never before saw—”
“My father—”
“Hush—hush—no word of that sort—”