“Where have you been rummaging, Raie?” he remarked, with curiosity. “This photograph is not my father, but a lad who went abroad a long time ago. I am afraid I must not tell you his name.”
“It is Ferdinand Montella,” she returned boldly. “You see I know.”
He regarded her with surprise. “Who told you?” he asked, in his quiet way.
“I guessed it; but mamma was talking to me about Ferdinand to-day. I did not know there was such a person in existence. There seems to be quite a mystery about him. May I not know what it is, Lal?”
“You surely do not desire to know what my parents wish to keep secret, do you, Raie?”
“Oh, no—if you put it like that; but I did not think there was any harm in asking. Perhaps Aunt Inez will not mind telling me now that I am no longer a child.”
“I should advise you not to mention the subject for the present, Raie,” he answered seriously. “It isn’t worth while raking up a story of the past which people would rather forget, is it? Perhaps, if you wait a little while, my mother will tell you of her own accord.”
Raie quenched her thirst for information, and acquiesced, but still regarded the pictured face intently. There was an expression in the eyes which took her fancy; and in spite of the weakness of the mouth, the lips indicated good-humour.
“I like Ferdinand Montella,” she said decidedly, with a secret wonder at her own effusiveness. “He may not be perfect, and I suppose, from what mamma says, he is something of a scapegrace; but he has rather a nice face, I think. If ever he comes back I shall stand up for him.”
She was such an impetuous child.