“I’ve been dreaming of Marian, and I thought she looked like you do—but she don’t of course; and I wonder how I’ll know her from my mother, for she, too, was young when she died. If it were you, Miss Grey, I could tell you so easily, for I should look among the brightest angels there, and the one who sang the sweetest song and had the fairest face, would certainly be Marian Grey: but the other Marian—how shall I know her—think?”
Leaning forward so that her hot cheek touched the pale one of the sick girl, Marian said:
“Wouldn’t you know her by her voice?”
“I’m afraid not,” answered Alice; “I thought you were she at first when I heard you speak.”
“How is it now, darling?” Marian asked, in a voice so tremulous that Alice started, and her white face flushed as she replied: “You are not like her now, except at times, and then—it’s all so queer. There’s a mystery about you, Miss Grey—and seems sometimes just like I didn’t know what to think—you puzzle me so!”
“Shall I tell you, Alice? Have you strength to hear who and what I am?” Marian asked; and Alice answered eagerly;
“Yes—tell me—do?”
“And you’ll promise not to faint, nor scream, nor reveal it to anybody, unless I say you may?”
“It must be something terrible to make me faint or scream!”
“Not terrible, dearest, but strange!” and sitting down upon the bed, Marian wound her arm around the little girl.