For a moment Miriam paused, then all her hatred of the dead woman rose up within her. "No," she said, coldly. "Their hair and eyes are nearly the same colour, but they are not in the least alike. Why? What difference does it make?"
"None," sighed the blind man. "But I am glad to have the truth at last, and I thank you. Sometimes I have fancied, when Barbara spoke, that it was Constance talking to me. It would have been a great satisfaction to me to have had my baby the living image of her mother, since I am to see again, but it is all right as it is."
Since he was to see! Miriam had not counted upon that possibility, and she clenched her hands in swift remorse. If he should discover that she had lied to him, he would never forgive her, and she would lose what little regard he had for her. He had a Puritan insistence upon the literal truth.
"How beautiful Constance was," he sighed. An inarticulate murmur escaped from Miriam, which he took for full assent.
"Did you ever see anyone half so beautiful, Miriam?"
Her throat was parched, but Miriam forced herself to whisper, "No." This much was truth.
A Beautiful Bride
"How sweet she was and what pretty ways she had," he went on. "Do you remember how lovely she was in her wedding gown?"
Again Miriam forced herself to answer, "Yes."
"Do you remember how people said we were mismated—that a man of fifty could never hope to keep the love of a girl of twenty, who knew nothing of the world?"