“Fate! yes!” exclaimed Vance, dashing one hand against the other. “Can you tell me which was blue?”
“Yes, the left was blue.”
Vance took from the envelope a paper, and unfolding it pointed to these lines which Onslow and Kenrick perused together:—
Vance. “You tell me one of her eyes was dark blue, the other dark gray. Can you tell me which was blue?”
Hattie. “Yes; for I remember a talk about it between the father and the mother. The father had blue eyes, the mother gray. The mother playfully boasted that the eye of her color was the child’s right eye; to which the father replied, ‘But the left is nearest the heart.’ And so, sir, remembering that conversation, I can swear positively that the child’s left eye was the blue one.”
“Rather a striking concurrence of testimony!” said Onslow. “I wonder I should never have detected the oddity.”
“Let me remark,” replied Kenrick, “that it required a near observation to note the difference in the hue of the eyes. Three feet off you would hardly discriminate. The depth of shade is nearly equal in both. You might be acquainted with Perdita a twelvemonth and never heed the peculiarity. So do not, cousin, take blame to yourself for inattention.”
“Do you remember, Charles,” said Vance, “our visit to the hospital the day after our landing in New York?”
“Yes, I shall never forget the scene,” replied Kenrick.
“Do you remember,” continued Vance, “among the nurses quite a young girl, who, while carrying a salver of food to a wounded soldier, was asked by you if you should not relieve her of the burden?”