“No, mine is not, but my mother’s was.”
“Of course it was. Those eyes of yours are the Darro eyes. Do you think I do not know the Darro eyes when I see them?”
And he took Amy’s hand, and said, “Whose daughter are you?”
“My name is Amy Waring.”
“Oh! then you are Corinna’s daughter. Your aunt Lucia married Mr. Bennet, and—and—” Lawrence Newt’s voice paused and hesitated for a moment, “and—there was another.”
There was something so tenderly respectful in the tone that Amy, with only a graver face, replied,
“Yes, there was my Aunt Martha.”
“I remember all. She is gone; my dear young lady, you will forgive me, but your face recalls other years.” Then turning to the widow, he said, “Mrs. Simmer, I am sure that you could have no kinder, no better friend than this young lady.”
The young lady looked at him with a gentle inquiry in her eyes as who should say, “What do you know about it?”
Lawrence Newt’s eyes understood in a moment, and he answered: