There was moisture in the eyes.
“Her daughter is very like her,” he said, musingly; and the two stood together silently for some time looking at the picture.
“Not entirely like her mother,” replied Mrs. Simcoe, as if to assert some other resemblance.
“Perhaps not; but I never saw her father.”
As Lawrence Newt said this, Mrs. Simcoe raised her hand, opened it, and held the miniature before his eyes. He took it and gazed closely at it.
“And this is Colonel Wayne,” said he, slowly. “This is the man who broke another man’s heart and murdered a woman.”
A mingled expression of pain, indignation, passionate regret, and resignation suddenly glittered on the face of Mrs. Simcoe.
“Mr. Newt, Mr. Newt,” said she, hurriedly, in a thick voice, “let us at least respect the dead!”
Lawrence Newt, still holding the miniature in his hand, looked surprised and searchingly at his companion. A lofty pity shot into his eyes.
“Could I speak of her otherwise?”