There was some reason for his incredulity. Jack was a stout, good-looking boy, with a pleasant face; but Ida's beauty was of a delicate, refined type, which argued gentle birth,—her skin of a brilliant whiteness, dashed by a tinge of rose,—exhibiting a physical perfection, which it requires several generations of refined habits and exemptions from the coarser burdens of life to produce. The perfection of human development is not wholly a matter of chance, but is dependent, in no small degree, upon outward conditions. We frequently see families who have sprung from poverty to wealth exhibiting, in the younger branches, marked improvement in this respect.
“Yes;” said Jack, “my sister.”
“If it is your sister,” said the clerk, “you ought to know where she is.”
Jack was about to reply, when the attention of both was called by a surprised exclamation from a lady who had paused beside them. Her eyes, also, were fixed upon “The Flower-Girl.”
“Who is this?” she asked, hurriedly. “Is it taken from life?”
“This young man says it is his sister,” said the clerk.
“Your sister!” said the lady, her eyes bent, inquiringly, upon Jack. In her tone, too, there was a slight mingling of surprise, and, as it seemed, disappointment.
“Yes, madam,” said Jack, respectfully.
“Pardon me,” she said, “there is so little family resemblance, I should hardly have supposed it.”
“She is not my own sister,” said Jack, “but I love her just the same.”