"That—that!" stammered Mr. Blackford. "How did you come by that mark, Amy?"
He stood holding her arm—her arm whence the sleeves had been ripped, and the young man was gazing with fascinated eyes at a peculiar star-shaped mark in deep red imprinted on the white flesh. In red it matched the ruddy hue of the blood drawn by the lynx.
"Tell me," he said, hoarsely, "how did that mark come there?"
"It is a birth mark," said Amy, slowly. "It has always been there. But why—why do you question me so? Why do you look at me so strangely?"
"Because, Amy, there may be something providential in this. Because you—you may be my—sister!"
"Your sister!" She started as though to pull away from him, but he held her arm, continuing to gaze at the red mark.
"Yes," he answered. "Wait. I must make sure this time. I have a drawing of it. Let me compare it, please. You are not cold?"
"No." Amy was pale, but her heart was pumping blood through her veins at such a rapid rate that it seemed as if she would never be cold again. The flow of blood from the scratches made by the beast had somewhat lessened.
From his pocket Mr. Blackford drew a paper. Amy could see that it contained a drawing—an outline in red ink. The young man compared this with the mark on her shoulder—a mark at which she had often wondered herself.
"It is the same—the very same," he murmured. "The same shape, the same size, and in the same place. There can be no doubt of it, I think. Amy, you must be—my sister!"