“You are not accustomed to mountainous views, perhaps,” said the stranger, and then for the first time Mildred became conscious that a pair of soft, dark eyes were bent upon her with a searching, burning gaze, from which she intuitively shrank.
Ever since her veil had been removed that same look had been fixed upon her, and to himself the stranger more than once had said, “If it were possible; but no, it cannot be;” and yet those starry eyes and that nut-brown hair, how they carried him back to the long ago. Could there be two individuals so much alike, and yet nothing to each other? Some such idea passed through his mind as he sat watching her beautiful face, and determined at last to question her, he addressed her as we have seen.
“Yes, I am accustomed to mountain scenery,” she replied, “though not as grand as this.”
“Were you born among the New England hills?” was the next question put to her, and the answer waited for, oh, so eagerly.
For an instant Mildred hesitated, while the hot blood stained her face and neck, and then she replied:
“I was born in New York City,” while over the fine features of the gentleman opposite there fell a shade of disappointment.
Mildred had interested him strangely; and with a restless desire to know more of her history, he continued:
“Pardon me, miss; but you so strongly resemble a friend I have lost that I would like to know your name?”
Again Mildred hesitated, while the name of Howell trembled on her lips, but reflecting that she had no longer a right to it, she answered:
“My name, sir, is Miss Hawley.”