He thought it indescribably
beautiful, in spite of the manner in which the curls and tresses had
tangled themselves. They hid her face as she bent over the picture. He
did not speak. He waited, knowing that in a moment or two all that he
had guessed at would be clear, and that when the girl looked up she
would tell him about the picture, and why she happened to be here, and
not with the woman of the coach, who must have been her mother.
When at last she did look up from the picture her eyes were big and
staring and filled with a mysterious questioning.
David, feeling quite sure of himself, said:
"How did it happen that you were away up here, and not with your mother
that night when I met her on the train?"
"She wasn't my mother," replied the girl, looking at him still in that
strange way. "My mother is dead."
CHAPTER XVIII
After that quietly spoken fact that her mother was dead, David waited
for Marge O'Doone to make some further explanation. He had so firmly
convinced himself that the picture he had carried was the key to all
that he wanted to know--first from Tavish, if he had lived, and now from
the girl--that it took him a moment or two to understand what he saw in
his companion's face.
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