There was a moment’s stillness, and then the hand which hitherto had rested on Marian’s lap was raised until it reached the head, where it lay lightly, very lightly, though to Marian it seemed like the weight of a thousand pounds, and she felt every hair prickle at its root when the blind girl said to her:
“Ain’t you Marian?”
“Yes, Marian Grey. Didn’t you know my first name?” was the answer, spoken so deliberately that Marian was astonished at herself.
There was a wavering then in the brown eyes, a quivering of the lids, and the great tears rolled down Alice’s cheeks, for with this calm reply, uttered so naturally, the hope she had scarcely dared to cherish passed away, and she murmured sadly:
“It cannot be her.”
“What makes you cry, darling?” asked Marian, choking back her own tears, which were just ready to flow, and which did gush forth in torrents, when Alice answered:
“Oh, I wish I wasn’t blind to-night!”
This surely was a good cause for weeping and pressing the little one to her bosom, Marian wept over her passionately for a few moments; then, drying her eyes, she said:
“Why to-night more than any other time?”
“Because I want so much to know how you look,” returned Alice; adding immediately: “May I feel of your face? It’s the only way I have of seeing.”