“I’d give a good deal to,” he replied. She took a flat locket from her dress and handed it to him.
“Women don’t wear lockets in these days,”—he could barely hear her voice, it was so low,—“but I’ve never taken it off. I wanted him near my heart. It’s Jem!”
He held it on the palm of his hand and stood under the light, studying it as if he wanted to be sure he wouldn’t forget it.
“It’s—sorter like that picture of Miles Hugo, ain’t it?” he suggested.
“Yes; people always said so. That was why you found me in the picture-gallery the first time we met.”
“I knew that was the reason, and I knew I’d made a break when I butted in,” he answered. Then, still looking at the photograph, he said: “You’d know that face again most anywhere you saw it, I guess. A man would know a face like that again wherever he saw it. Thank you, Lady Joan.”
He handed back the picture, and she put out her hand again.
“I think I’ll go to my room now,” she said. “You’ve done a strange thing to me. You’ve taken nearly all the hatred and bitterness out of my heart. I shall want to come back here whether my mother comes or not—I shall want to.”
“The sooner the quicker,” he said. “And so long as I’m here, I’ll be ready and waiting.”
“Don’t go away,” she said softly. “I shall need you.”