“Not as much as you’ve puzzled me, my young friend. Come here, and look in the mirror with me.”
Vance took him by the hand and led him to a full-length looking-glass. There they stood looking at their reflections.
“What do you see?” asked Vance.
“Two rather personable fellows,” replied Kenrick, laughing; “one of them ten or twelve years older than the other; height of the two, about the same; figures very much alike, inclining to slimness, but compact, erect, well-knit; hands and feet small; heads,—I have no fault to find with the shape or size of either; hair similar in color; eyes,—as near as I can see, the two pairs resemble each other, and the crow’s-feet at the corners are the same in each; features,—nose,—brows—I see why you’ve brought me here, Mr. Vance! We are enough alike to be brothers.”
“Can you explain the mystery?” asked Vance, “for I can’t. Can there be any family relationship? I had an aunt, now deceased, who was married to a Louisianian. But his name was not Kenrick.”
“What was it?”
“Arthur Maclain.”
“My father! Cousin, your hand! In order to inherit property, my father, after his marriage, procured a change of name. I can’t tell you how pleasant to me it is to meet one of my mother’s relations.”
They had come together still more akin in spirit than in blood. The night was all too short for the confidences they now poured out to each other. Vance told his whole story, pausing occasionally to calm down the excitement which the narrative caused in his hearer.
When it was finished Kenrick said: “Cousin, count me your ally in compassing your revenge. May God do so to me, and more also, if I do not give this beastly Slave Power blood for blood.”