"I can never marry Ray until I know," she had told herself over and over in great distress, "for I love him too well ever to bring any blight upon his life."
She had had a dim hope that Mr. Corbin might in some way manage to unravel the mystery, and yet she could not see that he had anything more tangible to work upon than she herself had.
Mona finished the dress and carried it to Mrs. Montague, who seemed very much pleased with it.
"You are a lovely seamstress, Ruth, and a good, faithful girl," she said, as she carefully examined the neatly made garment. "But for one thing," she added, as she covertly searched the girl's fair face, "I believe I should grow really fond of you."
This remark put Mona on her guard in a moment, though it also set her heart to beating with a vague hope.
"Thank you for your praise of my work, Mrs. Montague," she quietly said, "but," lifting a wondering glance to her face, "what is the one thing that I lack to win your esteem? If I am at fault in any way I should be glad to know and correct it."
"You lack nothing. It is because you so much resemble a person whom I used to detest—I am unaccountably antagonized by it," said the woman, frowning, for the clear eyes, looking so frankly into hers, were wondrously like Mona Forester's.
"Oh, I suppose you refer to the person whose picture I found up stairs a while ago," said Mona.
"Yes," and Mrs. Montague looked slightly ashamed of her confession; "I imagine you think I am somewhat unjust to allow my prejudice to extend to you on that account, and I know I am; but the power of association is very strong, and I did hate that girl with all my heart."
Mona was trying to acquire courage to ask what reason she could have for hating any one who looked so gentle and inoffensive, when the woman resumed, with some embarrassment: