‘No recollection!’ cried the girl, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Why, I have cherished the memory of her face all my life; it was something too sacred to speak of, even to you. She is the sweetest memory of those happy days—a face that bent over my bed every morning when I awoke—a face that watched me every night when I fell asleep; and I never remember falling asleep except in her arms. It is all dim and dreamlike now, but so sweet, so sweet!’ ‘Is that anything like the face?’ asked Lucius, showing her the miniature. ‘Yes, it is the very face!’ she cried, tearfully kissing it. ‘Where did you get this portrait, Lucius?’ ‘Your grandfather gave it me.’ ‘Yes, I remember his showing me this miniature a long time ago. But of late he has refused to let me see it.’ ‘He may have feared to awaken sorrowful memories.’ ‘As if they had ever slept. Will you give me this picture, Lucius?’ ‘Not yet, dearest. I have a reason for wishing to retain it a little while longer; but I fully recognise your right to possess it.’ ‘It is a double miniature,’ said Lucille, turning it round. ‘Whose is the other portrait?’ ‘Have you no recollection of that face?’ ‘No; I can recall no face but my mother’s—not even my nurse’s. I only remember her tall white cap, and her big rough hands.’ ‘You remember no gentleman in that home by the sea?’ ‘Not distinctly. There was some one who was always taking mamma out in a carriage, leaving me to cry for her. That gentleman must have been my father, I suppose, yet my vague recollection of the face seems different. I remember being told to kiss him one night, and refusing because he always took mamma away from me.’ ‘Were you happy?’ ‘O yes, very happy, though I cried when mamma left me. My nurse was kind. I remember long sunny days in the orchard on that hill, with the bright blue sea before us, and a house with a thatched verandah, and a parlour full of all kinds of pretty things—boxes and baskets and picture-books—and mamma’s guitar. She used to sing every night to the accompaniment of the guitar. We lived near the top of a high hill—very high and steep—higher than any hills we have passed to-day.’ ‘Is that all you can tell me, Lucille?’ ‘I think so. The life seemed to melt away like a dream. I can’t remember the end of it. If my mother died in that house on the hill, I can remember no circumstance connected with her death—no illness, no funeral. My last recollection of her is being clasped in her arms—feeling her tears and kisses on my face. Then came a long, long journey with my father. I was very tired, but he was kind to me, and held me in his arms while I slept; and one morning I woke to find myself in the gloomy-looking bedroom in Bond-street. I began to cry, and Mrs. Wincher came to me; and soon after that some one told me that my mother was dead. I think it was grandpapa.’ ‘Poor child! poor lonely deserted child!’ said Lucius. ‘Not deserted, Lucius. My mother would never have abandoned me while she lived.’