nt on.

"I perfectly remembered her; the turn of her features, her olive
complexion, and black hair, her height, her walk, her voice."

"Dr. Bretton, of course," I pursued, "would be out of the question:
and, indeed, as I saw your first interview with him, I am aware that he
appeared to you as a stranger."

"That first night I was puzzled," she answered.

"How did the recognition between him and your father come about?"

"They exchanged cards. The names Graham Bretton and Home de
Bassompierre gave rise to questions and explanations. That was on the
second day; but before then I was beginning to know something."

"How--know something?"

"Why," she said, "how strange it is that most people seem so slow to
feel the truth--not to see, but _feel_! When Dr. Bretton had visited me
a few times, and sat near and talked to me; when I had observed the
look in his eyes, the expression about his mouth, the form of his chin,
the carriage of his head, and all that we _do_ observe in persons who
approach us--how could I avoid being led by association to think of
Graham Bretton? Graham was slighter than he, and not grown so tall, and
had a smoother face, and longer and lighter hair, and spoke--not so
deeply--more like a girl; but yet _he_ is Graham, just as _I_ am little
Polly, or you are Lucy Snowe."

I thought the same, but I wondered to find my thoughts hers: there are
certain things in which we so rarely meet with our double that it seems
a miracle when that chance befalls.

"You and Graham were once playmates."

"And do you remember that?" she questioned in her turn.

"No doubt he will remember it also," said I.

"I have not asked him: few things would surprise me so much as to find
that he did. I suppose his disposition is still gay and careless?"

"Was it so formerly? Did it so strike you? Do you thus remember him?"

"I scarcely remember him in any other light. Sometimes he was studious;
sometimes he was merry: but whether busy with his books or disposed for
play, it was chiefly the books or game he thought of; not much heeding
those with whom he read or amused himself."

"Yet to you he was partial."

"Partial to me? Oh, no! he had other playmates--his school-fellows; I
was of little consequence to him, except on Sundays: yes, he was kind
on Sundays. I remember walking with him hand-in-hand to St. Mary's, and
his finding the places in my prayer-book; and how good and still he was
on Sunday evenings! So mild for