Jane, after one glance, drew back.
“Milly Erne!” she cried, wonderingly.
Venters, with tingling pulse, with something growing on him, recognized in the faded miniature portrait the eyes of Milly Erne.
“Yes, that’s Milly,” said Lassiter, softly. “Bess, did you ever see her face—look hard—with all your heart an’ soul?”
“The eyes seem to haunt me,” whispered Bess. “Oh, I can’t remember—they’re eyes of my dreams—but—but—”
Lassiter’s strong arm went round her and he bent his head.
“Child, I thought you’d remember her eyes. They’re the same beautiful eyes you’d see if you looked in a mirror or a clear spring. They’re your mother’s eyes. You are Milly Erne’s child. Your name is Elizabeth Erne. You’re not Oldring’s daughter. You’re the daughter of Frank Erne, a man once my best friend. Look! Here’s his picture beside Milly’s. He was handsome, an’ as fine an’ gallant a Southern gentleman as I ever seen. Frank came of an old family. You come of the best of blood, lass, and blood tells.”
Bess slipped through his arm to her knees and hugged the locket to her bosom, and lifted wonderful, yearning eyes.
“It—can’t—be—true!”
“Thank God, lass, it is true,” replied Lassiter. “Jane an’ Bern here—they both recognize Milly. They see Milly in you. They’re so knocked out they can’t tell you, that’s all.”