She raised her head again with the same remote look. I noticed a fine gold chain round her neck, the end of which disappeared in her bosom.
“It won’t ever be quite the same,” she replied. “Perhaps some day I shall have forgotten——”
I looked at the chain and spoke quietly.
“Is that——?”
“Yes,” she replied, her hand going softly to her breast. “I cut it out of a group, but he didn’t give it to me. You don’t mind if I don’t show it to you, do you, Mr. Butterfield? You don’t know what it is to lose anybody—like that.”
“You forget I am losing a sister, Aggie,” I answered. She thought a moment, and then made a sudden resolve. She spoke softly and almost mechanically.
“I think I will tell you, Mr. Butterfield. I wouldn’t tell”—she looked round—“any one else, but—I trust you, Mr. Butterfield. I haven’t given Caroline my present yet—I haven’t made up my mind. I’ve got two, a handkerchief case, and—this. I could give her the handkerchief case—anybody can give handkerchief cases—or the other. Anybody wouldn’t give the other. I can’t keep it, Mr. Butterfield. Look.”
She glanced round, and drew the small locket from her neck and opened it. It was Bassishaw’s portrait, a poor, ragged production, cut out, as she had said, from some larger picture. I half glanced at it, understanding without looking.
“It is worth more than a handkerchief case,” she continued, speaking very low, “and I know Caroline would value it more, if I told her. If anybody did that to me I should—I should love them. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Butterfield?”
I made no reply. Poor Aggie! She was only sixteen, and would get over it; but it was real to her, and she was very brave. She went on: