"You have been letting lodgings for a long time?" I asked. "I
suppose it could be fifteen--twenty years ago that strangers to you
lived in this room?"
"Longer than that," she said quietly, dropping for the moment all
affectation. "We came here from the farm when my father died. He
had had losses, and there was but little left. That is twenty-
seven years ago now."
I hastened to close the conversation, fearing long-winded
recollections of "better days." I have heard such so often from
one landlady and another. I had not learnt much. Who was the
original of the miniature, how it came to be lying forgotten in the
dusty book-case were still mysteries; and with a strange perversity
I could not have explained to myself I shrank from putting a direct
question.
So two days more passed by. My work took gradually a firmer grip
upon my mind, and the face of the miniature visited me less often.
But in the evening of the third day, which was a Sunday, a curious
thing happened.
I was returning from a stroll, and dusk was falling as I reached
the cottage. I had been thinking of my farce, and I was laughing
to myself at a situation that seemed to me comical, when, passing
the window of my room, I saw looking out the sweet fair face that
had become so familiar to me.
Pages:
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131