“Miss Hope,” said Lawrence Newt, who approached her with a young woman by his side, “I want you to know my friend Amy Waring.”
The two girls looked at each other and bowed. Then they shook hands with a curious cordiality.
Amy Waring had dark eyes—not round and hard and black—not ebony eyes, but soft, sympathetic eyes, in which you expect to see images as lovely as the Eastern traveler sees when he remembers home and looks in the drop held in the palm of the hand of the magician’s boy. They had the fresh, unworn, moist light of flowers early in June mornings, when they are full of sun and dew. And there was the same transparent, rich, pure darkness in her complexion. It was not swarthy, nor black, nor gloomy. It did not look half Indian, nor even olive. It was an illuminated shadow.
The two girls—they were women, rather—went together to a sofa and sat down. Hope Wayne’s impulse was to lay her head upon her new friend’s shoulder and cry; for Hope was prostrated by the unexpected vision of Abel, as a strong man is unnerved by sudden physical pain. She felt the overwhelming grief of a child, and longed to give way to it utterly.
“I am glad to know you, Miss Wayne!” said Amy Waring, in a cordial, cheerful voice, with a pleasant smile.
Hope bowed, and thanked her.
“I find that Mr. Newt’s friends always prove to be mine,” continued Amy.
“I am glad of it; but I don’t know why I am his friend,” said Hope. “I never saw him until to-day. He must have lived in Delafield. Do you know how that is?”
She found conversation a great relief, and longed to give way to a kind of proud, indignant volubility.
“No; but he seems to have lived every where, to have seen every thing, and to have known every body. A very useful acquaintance, I assure you!” said Amy, smiling.