She looked as if she had. Her eyes were the eyes of one who can remember; one whose childhood does not fade like a dream, nor whose youth vanish like a sunbeam. She would not take life, loosely and incoherently, in parts, and let one season slip as she entered on another: she would retain and add; often review from the commencement, and so grow in harmony and consistency as she grew in years. Still I could not quite admit the conviction that _all_ the pictures which now crowded upon me were vivid and visible to her. Her fond attachments, her sports and contests with a well-loved playmate, the patient, true devotion of her child’s heart, her fears, her delicate reserves, her little trials, the last piercing pain of separation…. I retraced these things, and shook my head incredulous. She persisted. “The child of seven years lives yet in the girl of seventeen,” said she. “You used to be excessively fond of Mrs. Bretton,” I remarked, intending to test her. She set me right at once. “Not _excessively_ fond,” said she; “I liked her: I respected her as I should do now: she seems to me very little altered.” “She is not much changed,” I assented. We were silent a few minutes. Glancing round the room she said, “There are several things here that used to be at Bretton! I remember that pincushion and that looking-glass.” Evidently she was not deceived in her estimate of her own memory; not, at least, so far. “You think, then, you would have known Mrs. Bretton?” I went 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.