The lady’s eyes drooped and all the haughtiness vanished at these words.
“Thank you, Doctor Turner, for your consideration for me, and I am glad, too, that one so conscientious has been intrusted with the care of the child,” she said, earnestly. “Is—she still living?”
“Yes, and as beautiful a young lady as any one would wish to see.”
Mrs. Marston’s face clouded, and a sigh escaped her red lips. Her companion thought it one of regret and yearning.
“Has she been well reared? Has she had advantages?”
“The very best that money could procure or fondest affection could suggest. Mr. August—ah—Damon——” the doctor caught himself just in season, for the gentleman’s true name had almost escaped him, “has become a rich man, and no parents could have done more for the welfare of their own child than they have done for yours.”
“Are there other children?”
“No; that is, they have none of their own, though I believe they have been giving a poor boy of great promise a home and an education during the last eight or ten years.”
“Does she—the daughter—know that she is an adopted child?” Mrs. Marston inquired.
“I cannot say positively as to that,” Doctor Turner replied. “She did not know it a few years ago, and I imagine she has never been told. I hope not, at all events; it would be better for her never to know it,” he concluded, with significant emphasis.