“And just how old are you?” inquired the man turning to the French girl.
“Fifteen,” she answered simply.
“And you came to New York last year?” he continued.
“Yes,” answered Miette, wondering why she should be thus catechised.
Then he unrolled a great packet of papers. From an envelope in the packet he took a small picture.
“Whose picture is this?” he asked Miette.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, “My own mother’s—the one we had at home. Where did you get it?” and she reverently pressed the small glass-covered miniature to her lips.
“There can be no question as to identity,” the lawyer said to Mrs. White, without appearing to notice Miette’s emotion. “Of course the legal technicalities will have to be complied with, but this is without question the child in the case.”
Miette allowed Dorothy to look at the miniature. What a beautiful face—yes, Miette was like this sweet sad-faced woman.
The lawyer was talking aside to Mrs. White.