Mr. Lane had heard this so often that he only smiled. It occurred to him, however, that if she were prettier than Effie she would have to be very pretty indeed. “I shall take you to call at the cottage this evening,” said Dr. Anthony. “You will then have an opportunity of meeting Aline. The rest of the family you have met already.” They went, and although Mr. Lane had expected to meet a very pretty girl indeed, he was surprised and amazed when he saw Aline Rodney. He saw a tall, graceful figure, exquisitely molded in the delicate, symmetrical curves of early womanhood. She wore a simple dark-blue cashmere dress, and the round, white throat rose from it with a certain stately grace and pride that was very excusable, seeing what a beautiful face shone above it like a peerless flower upon its stem. She was pale, but her skin was like the cream-white petals of a tea-rose. Her hair was darkest brown and loosely curling; her features were exquisite; her eyes were large and of the rare violet tinge so much admired, so seldom met; her brows were slender and black, and the long, fringed lashes were black, too, and made her eyes appear black in their shadow. Mr. Lane was as much struck by Aline’s bearing and manner as he was by her beauty. She had no ungraceful self-consciousness or awkwardness. Her bearing was easy, graceful, and even distinguished. It was natural, not acquired, for she had never mingled in society, and had had but few advantages of travel and culture. He wondered at that even more than at her beauty. It did not occur to him that the heavy cross that had fallen on her life had had the effect to intensify her natural grace into a grave, proud dignity, that in its silent way seemed like a mute protest against the wrongs she had sustained. The girl had budded into the woman, forced into untimely maturity and gravity by the refining power of sorrow. She was very quiet. She did not speak to Mr. Lane unless he pointedly addressed her. She rarely met any strangers, and when she did, she supposed that they knew her strange story, and despised her. She remembered always that “One venomed word, That struck its coward, poisoned blow, In craven whispers, hushed and low-- And yet the wide world heard.” Mr. Lane could talk very well when he would. It pleased him to converse with Aline Rodney. He was very gracious and affable with her, giving her no smallest hint or sign that he knew her strange story. While Effie touched the piano-keys with soft, lingering chords of music, and her lover hung enraptured over her, the detective sat apart and bent himself to the task of amusing Aline. He did not find it very easy at first. She was shy and cold; she seemed to take no interest in his words. She kept thinking, morbidly, to herself: “He knows my story, and he accordingly despises me.” But, as he continued to talk to her pleasantly, unmindful of her quiet reserve, a new thought came to her.