"That is all. I have been with her not yet two years."
The answer was concise and gentle. Still the deep, thoughtful eyes that had remained fixed with their wondering look on the face of the questioner as she spoke, disturbed the lady, and she moved uneasily. Somehow it penetrated more deeply under the covering of her soul than was comfortable, but she continued:
"Where was your previous home, my child?"
"In Massachusetts."
"Ah, a Northerner, then?"
"I do not know," replied the interrogated with a smile.
"Not know? You are an orphan I suppose?"
"I do not know."
At almost any other time Lily would have been indignant at such close questionings, but there was something about the tall stately lady in black that interested her and during the few moments they had sat there together she had read much in the dark face before her. Therefore, when she was asked further: "Have you no remembrance of a mother or of early years?" she determined to prolong the conversation, and watch closely for a peep beneath the mask she felt sure was there.
"No, I do not remember my mother, and very little about my childhood. There are, however, a few bright memories I have treasured on account of their distinctness, and which will never leave me. The rest of my life, before I was six years of age, is but a dream."