t was the name I heard. Are you Jacinth?' she went
on, addressing the elder girl, and as she fixed her eyes on Jacinth, a
little tremor passed over her. 'I think,' she whispered to herself, but
the children caught the words, 'I think--I wonder if it is fancy--I
almost think I see a likeness.'

Jacinth was tall and well grown for her age. She was not _pretty_--not
as pretty as fair, fluffy-haired Frances--but there was promise of more
than prettiness in her almost severely regular features, and her
colouring when one examined her carefully, was good too. Her hair a rich
dark brown, of a shade one hardly does justice to at the first careless
glance; her complexion healthily pale, with a tinge of sun-burning,
perhaps a few freckles; her eyes clear, strong, hazel eyes, with long
softening lashes. The whole was spoilt by a want of light--of the
sunshine one loves to see in a young face--the expression was too grave
and impassive; there was the suggestion of future hardness, unless time
should mellow instead of stiffening and accentuating the already
somewhat rigid lines.

It must have been this expression, more than any actual resemblance in
feature, which had made Marmaduke Denison smile to himself at the
curious likeness which had struck him between Jacinth and her Aunt
Alison.

The girl looked up in the old lady's face, and something--the oddity of
the whole situation, some indefinite sympathy which unconsciously sought
for an outlet--made her smile. Jacinth's smile was charming. Already to
her thin young face it gave the roundness and bloom it wanted--every
feature softened and the clear observant eyes grew sweet.

A faint flush--the mere suggestion of colour which in the aged often
denotes intense emotion--rose to Lady Myrtle Goodacre's face, as she met
Jacinth's smile. She scarcely waited for the girl's reply to her
question.

'Yes,' she went on, 'it must be. I cannot be mistaken. My dear,' she
added, 'I want to ask you several things, but this poor little fellow is
tired--and thirsty, didn't you say? Will you come in for a moment or
two? Not farther than the porch, if you prefer; perhaps you are in haste
to get home, and I must see you again.'

She turned and walked quickly back towards the house--the door of which
stood open--along the straight smooth gravel path leading from the gate;
the children following her, without seeming quite to know why, and Phebe
bringing up the rear with a face which looked as if s