"I have lived alone with him so long that I can almost read his mind, and I certainly know his peculiarities."
"It must have been a terribly lonely life for you. How old were you when your mother died?"
She moved with the nervous motion habitual to her whenever her mother's name was mentioned. "I was about nine," she said.
"Nine? And yet you remember nothing of her? Weir, it is impossible that you cannot remember her."
"I do not remember her," she said.
"I saw her picture in the library to-night. She must have been very beautiful, but like you only in being dark. Otherwise, there is not a trace of resemblance. But surely you must remember her, Weir; you are joking. I can remember when I was four years of age perfectly, and many things that happened."
"I remember nothing that happened before I was nine years old," she said.
He bent down suddenly and looked into her face. "Weir, what do you mean? There is always an uncomfortable suggestion of mystery whenever one speaks of your mother or your childhood. What is the reason you cannot remember? Did you have brain fever, and when you recovered, find your mind a blank? Such things have happened."
"No," she said, desperately, as if she had nerved herself for an effort. "That was not it. I have often wanted to tell you, but I cannot bear to speak of it. The old horror always comes back when I think of it. But I feel that I ought to tell you before we are married, and I will do so now since we are speaking of it. I did not have brain fever, but when I was nine years old—I died."
"You what?"