But it angered him so to talk of his enemy that he would not take the trouble to tell her anything about him, and he never dreamed how near he was to discovering what had been a sealed mystery for many long years.
“My name is Everet,” he went on, “and my mother is not dead, neither has she a face like a lily—she is dark, with a rich color and brilliant black eyes.”
The woman appeared still more perplexed and troubled by this statement.
She wagged her head slowly from side to side, as if she could not reconcile his assertions with her belief.
“Your mother’s name was Annie——” she began.
“No, my mother’s name is Estelle.”
“Estelle,” she repeated, searching his face keenly; “that might have been her other name. Didn’t she have bright, beautiful brown hair, and a sweet, gentle way with her?”
“No; her hair is as black as a raven’s wing, and no one would ever think of describing her as ‘sweet and gentle,’” the young Southerner replied, with a smile, as a vision of the magnificent woman who reigned in his home arose before him, “but proud and imperious. She is like some beautiful queen.”
“And is she your own mother?” questioned the flower vender, eagerly.
“Yes, my own mother, and I am her only child.”