He pointed to Eleanor Vane as he spoke. She was standing a little way apart from Gilbert Monckton and Laura; she had taken off her broad straw hat and slung it across her arm, and the warm summer breeze had swept the bright auburn hair from her forehead. Forgetful of every necessity for caution, in the intensity of her desire to see her dead father’s dearest friend, she had advanced a few paces from her companions, and stood watching the group about the old man’s chair.
“Who is she, Ellen Darrell?” repeated Mr. de Crespigny.
Mrs. Darrell looked almost frightened by her uncle’s eagerness.
“That young lady is only the musical instructress of another young lady I have in my care, Uncle Maurice,” she answered. “What is there in her that attracts your attention?”
The old man’s eyes filled with tears that rolled slowly down his withered cheeks.
“When George Vane and I were students together at Maudlin,” answered Maurice de Crespigny, “my friend was the living image of that girl.”
Mrs. Darrell turned sharply round; and looked at Eleanor at if she would have almost annihilated the girl for daring to resemble George Vane.
“I think your eyes must deceive you, my dear uncle,” said the widow; “I knew Mr. Vane well enough, and I never saw any likeness to him in this Miss Vincent.”
Maurice de Crespigny shook his head.
“My eyes do not deceive me,” he said. “It’s my memory that’s weak, sometimes; my eyesight is good enough. When you knew George Vane his hair was grey, and his handsome looks faded; when I first knew him he was as young as that girl yonder, and he was like her. Poor George! poor George!”