"But nothing would keep me from loving you always, Agnes," he said with deep feeling.
"Even if the papers would show me to be descended from some horrible pirate or worse."
"Nothing in the world could make a difference. Indeed, should the papers connect you with something out of the ordinary, I think I would like you better—that is, it would add even more mystery to your already mysterious self."
"Wonderful!"
He kissed her impulsively, and in the next hour she went off to bed.
"What is this?" said her fiancé's aunt, as the lawyer lifted a small package from the box of documents, and as he did so, an old photograph slipped and fell to the floor. It was yellow with age; but the reflection of the person was clearly discernible. All three looked at it in wonderment. Then her fiancé and his aunt regarded her with apprehension. The package was untied, and all the papers gone through and much history was therein contained. But one fact stood above all others.
"Is this a fact?" said the aunt coldly. Never had she appeared more dignified. Her nephew stood away, regarding Agnes out of eyes in which she could see a growing fear.
"Well, I hope everything is clear," said the lawyer astutely. "It seems that you have come into something, madam, and I trust it will prove of value." She mumbled something in reply, and stood gazing at the two pictures she now held. All that had been so strange to her in life was at last clear. She understood the changing color of her eyes, and her father's statements that he had never quite explained. At last she knew who she was.
She turned to find herself alone. She opened her lips and started to call the others, and then hesitated. Why had they left her? She looked at the photographs she held—and understood.