She returned quickly with an album in her hand; she sat again at my side and showed me a drawing, my own portrait.
"I sketched this," said she, "from memory."
"Is it possible?"
"But there is something more," added she, putting her finger on the paper.
Then only did I note that at the side near the edge of the paper, were the letters j. v. a., in a very small hand.
"This is read in French," whispered Tola.
"In French?"
And in my boundless simplicity, I could not think what they meant till she began,—
"Je vous—?"
And hiding her face in her hands, she bent so low that I saw the short hair on her neck, and her neck itself. Then I guessed at last and said with throbbing heart,—