“Tell me, sir—did she speak of me? Oh, tell me—what said she of her sister Marian?”
The question was put in a tone that betrayed anxiety. I did not leave her to the torture of suspense; but hastily repeated the affectionate expressions which Lilian had uttered in her behalf.
“Good kind Lil! I know she loves me as I love her—we had no other companions—none I may say for years, only father himself. And father—is he well?”
There was a certain reservation in the tone of this interrogatory, that contrasted strangely with that used when speaking of her sister. I well knew why.
“Yes,” I replied, “your father was also in good health when I saw him.”
There was a pause that promised embarrassment—a short interval of silence. A question occurred to me that ended it. “Is there no one else about whom you would desire to hear?”
I looked into her eyes as I put the question. The colour upon her cheeks went and came, like the changing hues of the chameleon. Her bosom rose and fell in short convulsive breathings; and, despite an evident effort to stifle it, an audible sigh escaped her. The signs were sufficient. I needed no further confirmation of my belief. Within that breast was a souvenir, that in interest far exceeded the memories of either sister or father. The crimson flush upon her cheek, the quick heaving of the chest, the half-hindered sigh, were evidences palpable and pronounced. Upon the heart of Marian Holt was the image of the handsome hunter—Frank Wingrove—graven there, deeply and never to be effaced.
“Why do you ask that question?” at length she inquired, in a voice of assumed calmness. “Know you anything of my history? You appear to know all. Has any one spoken of me?”
“Yes—often—one who thinks only of you.”
“And who, may I ask, takes this single interest in a poor outcast maiden?”