He had forgotten it, for the best of reasons, but he did not contradict her, so intent was he upon listening to her story.
“I had not observed her particularly before; but when I heard that sound I turned to look at her, while she stared at me as impudently as if I had no business here. That woman stepped between us purposely I know, for she seemed excited; and when I saw the arm-chair again the girl was gone.”
Thus far everything, except the probable age, had confirmed his suspicions; but there was one question more—an all-important one—and with trembling eagerness he asked:
“What of her hair? Did you notice that?”
“It was brown, I think,” said Isabel—“short in her neck and curly round her forehead. I should say her hair was rather handsome.”
With a sigh of disappointment Frederic turned upon his pillow, saying to her:
“That will do—I’ve heard enough.”
Isabel’s last words had brought back to his mind something which he had forgotten until now—the girl’s hair was short, and he remembered distinctly twining the soft rings around his fingers. They were not long, red curls, like those described by Sally Green. It wasn’t Marian’s hair—it wasn’t Marian at all; and in his weakness his tears dropped silently upon the pillow, for the disappointment was terrible. All that night and the following day he was haunted with thoughts of the young girl, and at last, determining to see her again and know if she were like Marian, he said to Isabel:
“Send for Mrs. Merton. I wish to talk with her.”
“It is an impossibility,” returned Isabel: “for, when she left us, I carelessly neglected to ask where she lived——”