He told her of the girl called Marian, and her inquiries about Cheriton.
“I wonder if you ever knew her among your villagers,” he said. “I should much like to know who she is. She interests me more than I can say. There is a refinement in her manners and appearance that convinces me she must have belonged to superior people. She was never born in a labourer’s cottage, or amidst a small shopkeeper’s shabby surroundings. She was never taught at a National School, or broken into domestic service.”
“And she was once very handsome, you say?”
“Yes, she must have been beautiful, before illness and trouble set their marks upon her face. She is only a wreck now, but there is beauty in the wreck.”
“How old do you suppose her to be?”
“Eight or nine and twenty. It is difficult to guess a woman’s age within two or three years, and this woman’s face is evidently aged by trouble; but I don’t think she can be thirty.”
“There is only one person I can think of who would in any manner answer your description,” said Juanita, thoughtfully.
“Who is that?”
“Mercy Porter. You must have heard about Mercy Porter, the daughter of the woman at the West Lodge.”
“Yes, yes, I remember. She ran away with a middle-aged man—an army man—one of your father’s visitors.”