"It is very simple and natural," persisted Beth. "Why cannot you answer it?"
"Excuse me, please. I—I am not well today. I have a headache."
She sat down in a rocking chair, and clasping her hands in her lap, rocked slowly back and forth.
"I'm sorry," said Beth. "I hoped you would be able to assist me on the lawn. There are so many people that we can't give them proper attention."
Eliza Parsons shook her head.
"I am not able," she declared. "I abhor crowds. They—they excite me, in some way, and I—I can't bear them. You must excuse me."
Beth looked at the strange girl without taking the hint to retire. Somehow, she could not rid herself of the impression that whether or not she was mistaken in supposing Eliza to be the missing Lucy, she had stumbled upon a sphinx whose riddle was well worth solving.
But Eliza bore the scrutiny with quiet unconcern. She even seemed mildly amused at the attention she attracted. Beth was a beautiful girl—the handsomest of the three cousins, by far; yet Eliza surpassed her in natural charm, and seemed well aware of the fact. Her manner was neither independent nor assertive, but rather one of well-bred composure and calm reliance. Beth felt that she was intruding and knew that she ought to go; yet some fascination held her to the spot. Her eyes wandered to the maid's hands. However her features and form might repress any evidence of nervousness, these hands told a different story. The thin fingers clasped and unclasped in little spasmodic jerks and belied the quiet smile upon the face above them.
"I wish," said Beth, slowly, "I knew you."
A sudden wave of scarlet swept over Eliza's face. She rose quickly to her feet, with an impetuous gesture that made her visitor catch her breath.