“Oh, certainly not—after such a happy birthday.”
“It was happy—indeed it was. I have not been so happy since.”
“I hope the reading of my story has not saddened you? If I thought so, I should regret ever having written it.”
“Thanks! thanks!” responded the young girl; “it is very good of you to say so.” And after the speech, she remained silent and thoughtful. “But you tell me it is not all true?” she resumed after a pause. “What part is not? You say that Zoë is a real character?”
“She is. Perhaps the only one in the book true to nature. I can answer for the faithfulness of the portrait. She was in my soul while I was painting it.”
“Oh!” exclaimed his companion, with a half suppressed sigh. “It must have been so. I’m sure it must. Otherwise how could you have told so truly how she would feel? I was of her age, and I know it!”
Maynard listened with delight. Never sounded rhapsody sweeter in the ears of an author.
The baronet’s daughter seemed to recover herself. It may have been pride of position, or the stronger instinct of love still hoping.
“Zoë,” she said. “It is a very beautiful name—very singular! I have no right to ask you, but I cannot restrain my curiosity. Is it her real name?”
“It is not. And you are the only one in the world who has the right to know what that is.”