“Certainly,” answered Marian; and the fingers wandered slowly, cautiously, over every feature, involuntarily caressing the fair, round cheek, but lingering longest on the hair—the beautiful hair—whose glossy waves were perceptible even to the touch.
“What color is it?” she asked, winding one of the curls around her finger.
“Some call it auburn, some chesnut, and some a mixture of both,” was the reply, and Alice continued her investigations by mentally comparing its length with a standard she had in her own mind.
The two did not agree, for the curls she remembered were longer and far more wiry than the silken tresses of Miss Grey.
“How tall are you?” she suddenly asked, and Marian tried to laugh, although every nerve was thrilling with fear, for she knew she was passing through a dangerous test.
“Rather tall,” she replied, standing up, “Yes, very tall, some would say. Put up your hand and see.”
Alice did as she requested, and her tears came faster as she whispered mournfully. “You’re the tallest.”
“Did you think we had met before?” asked Marian, and then the sobs of the child burst forth unrestrained.
Burying her face in Marian’s lap, she cried, “Yes—no—I don’t know what I thought, only you don’t seem to me like I supposed you would. You make me tremble so, and I keep thinking of somebody we lost long ago. At first your voice sounded so natural, that I knew most she was here, but you ain’t even like her. You’re taller and fatter, and handsomer, I reckon, and yet there is something about you that makes my heart beat so fast. Oh, I wish I could see what it is. What made God make me blind?”
Never before had Marian heard a murmur from the lips of the unfortunate child, and it seemed to her cruel not to whisper words of comfort in her ear. But she could not do it yet, and so she kissed her tenderly, saying, “Did you love this other one so very much?”