“Here,” said she, handing it to Francis. “Now give me one of your nice curls, and I will keep it forever.”
Frank let her cut off the lock that pleased her best. The child actually screamed with delight; and dancing round the room with true childish glee, she held it up for her mother to admire, and said she would “show it to papa as soon as he came home.”
Francis Beverly went. . . . .
Twelve or thirteen years after, a solitary equestrian was seen to enter the tangled avenue leading to Beverly Park.
He was fine-looking, very. There was a calm, almost subdued look about him; yet the great blue eyes that looked out upon the world through their long, dark lashes, told of passions deep and strong. The brow above them was clear, open, and broad. A mass of chestnut curls clustered around his brow, glancing out from under the thick folds of his traveling cap. Such was the master of Beverly Park. All around the Hall looked overgrown and neglected, as though the place had long stood sadly in want of a master. . . . . .
“Do you know, Mr. Bev—”
“Call me Frank. You always did when you were a child, sweet Nina.”
“Frank,” repeated the soft voice of Nina.
“What were you going to say?”
“Oh, I have forgotten.”