“‘Crazy!’ I repeated, now gazing with a feeling of pity upon the lovely face, which seemed imbued with life.
“I cannot describe that face, and I will not attempt it, for after I had told of the dark blue eyes and curls of golden hair, of the pure white skin and full ripe lips, you, my journal, would not have the least idea of the face, for the sweet, heavenly expression which made it what it was can never be described on paper. The artist had put it on canvas, so at least said Mrs. David West, and I believed her, drinking in its rare loveliness and repeating again, ‘Crazy—poor Anna! Was it for long?’
“‘No, not long; she died when Robin was born.’
“‘And her husband; he must have been heart-broken,’ I ventured to say next, but if Mrs. West heard me, she made no reply, and with my thoughts in a tumult, I continued looking at the portrait until, suddenly remembering the grave which had so interested me, I asked, ‘How old was Anna when she died?’
“‘Just twenty,’ was the reply; while I rejoined, ‘I am sure then I have seen her grave. It says upon the stone, “Anna, aged 20.”’
“‘Yes, that’s all Richard would have on the marble. It almost killed Richard, but God has healed the wound just as He will heal all hearts which go to Him.’
“I don’t know why I said what I did next, unless it were that I should have died if I had not. The words were wrung from me almost against my will:
“‘Was Richard Anna’s husband?’
“‘No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband!’ Mrs. West replied, quickly.
“Heretofore she had answered my queries concerning Anna with hesitancy, but the ‘No, no, oh no, Richard was not her husband,’ was spoken eagerly, decidedly, as if it were a fact she would particularly impress upon my mind. Then, as I stood looking at her expectantly, she went on, but this time in the old, cautious manner: