That evening found him knocking at her door, his heart beating with something of excitement, and with a sense of constraint upon him such as he had never before experienced.
“The maid” admitted him, a dainty flush tinging her fair cheek as she encountered his earnest glance, and he thought her more beautiful than ever, while he was firmly convinced that she was in reality no servant, but connected by some tie of blood to the woman whom she professed to serve, although there was no resemblance between them.
Mrs. Marston arose to receive him as he entered.
He had never seen her dressed until now, and he was almost bewildered by her brilliant beauty.
She was tall, with a symmetrical figure. She was queenly and self-possessed in her carriage, and betrayed in every movement the well-bred lady, accustomed to the very best of society.
She was dressed in a heavy black silk, which fitted her perfectly, and fell in graceful folds around her splendid form.
She wore no colors, and might have been in mourning, judging from the simplicity of her dress, and she might not—he could not determine. Her only ornaments were several rings of great value, and an elegant brooch, which fastened the rich lace, fine as a cobweb, about her throat.
“I am very glad to see you, Dr. Turner,” she said, graciously, as she extended her white, jeweled hand to him; “and I thank you for responding so promptly to my request. Nellie, please bring that rocker for the gentleman,” she concluded, indicating a willow chair in another portion of the room.
The maid obeyed, and then quietly withdrew.
“You are looking remarkably well, Mrs. Marston,” Dr. Turner observed, hardly able to believe that she could be the same woman who had been so pale and wan when he had first seen her.