“Seen them; seen Ralph?” exclaimed Miss Weston, in joyous surprise. “Is his not a fine character? And Marion, his sister, is she not lovely?”
“I know them but little. They were at a hotel in Frankfort, where we stopped. I first met them there, and again in Paris, twice, accidentally.”
“How strange,” continued Miss Weston. “Will they not be greatly surprised when I tell them I know you?”
Dawn laid her hand heavily on her friend's shoulder, saying:
“Miss Weston, I have my reasons, which sometime I may explain to you, for asking you not to mention my name to any member of that family.” It was the same bright face which years ago was turned on her with words of consolation; the same childish pleading, for Dawn's face was a type of her spirit,—free, innocent and pure. “Will you promise without an explanation?”
“I will, strange as it seems; but, may I ask you one question, before we leave this subject?”
“Certainly.”
“Has Ralph or Marion ever injured you?”
“Never. I think very highly of them both.”
The subject was dismissed, and although their words floated to interesting topics, no deep feeling could be experienced by either, for each had become insphered and separate; one pondering, despite her efforts to the contrary, upon the strange request; the other thinking how strangely fate had again approximated lives which, in her present state, she could only see, must be kept apart.