"I was not prying," she quietly responded. "I thought I would pack everything nicely from the bottom of the trunk, and as I took out the cloth to shake and smooth it, I found this picture lying beneath it. I was very much startled to find how much it resembles me. Who can she be, Mrs. Montague?" and Mona lifted a pair of innocently wondering eyes to the frowning face above her.
For a moment the woman seemed to be trying to read her very soul; then she remarked, through her set teeth:
"It is more like you, or you are more like it than I thought. Did you never see a picture like it before?"
"No, never," Mona replied, so positively that Mrs. Montague could not doubt the truth of her statement. "Is it the likeness of some relative of yours?" she asked, determined if possible to sift the matter to the bottom.
"A relative? No, I hope not. The girl's name was Mona Forester, and—I hated her!"
"Mona Forester!" repeated Mona to herself, with a great inward start, though she made no outward sign, while a feeling of bitter disappointment swept over her heart.
It could not then have been a picture of her mother, she thought, for her name must have been Mona Dinsmore, unless—strange that she had not thought of it when she read that advertisement in the paper—unless she had been the half-sister of her Uncle Walter.
"You hated her?" Mona murmured aloud, with her tender, devouring glance fastened upon the beautiful face.
The tone and emphasis seemed to arouse all the passion of the woman's nature.
"Yes, with my whole soul!" she fiercely cried, and before Mona was aware of her intention, she had snatched the picture from her hands, and torn it into four pieces.