A faint smile illumined the countenance of Maud, and the blood began to
return to her cheeks. She stretched her hand over to the sketch, and
gazed on it, with intense feeling, until the tears began to stream from
her eyes.

"Maud--dear, _dearest_ Maud--have I said that which pains you?--I
do not understand all this, but I confess there are secrets to which I
can have no claim to be admitted--"

"Nay, Bob, this is making too much of what, after all, must sooner or
later be spoken of openly among us. I believe that to be a copy of a
miniature of my mother."

"Of mother, Maud--you are beside yourself--it has neither her features,
expression, nor the colour of her eyes. It is the picture of a far
handsomer woman, though mother is still pretty; and it is perfection!"

"I mean of _my_ mother--of Maud Yeardley; the wife of my father,
Major Meredith."

This was said with a steadiness that surprised our heroine herself,
when she came to think over all that had passed, and it brought the
blood to her companion's heart, in a torrent.

"This is strange!" exclaimed Willoughby, after a short pause. "And
_my_ mother--_our_ mother has given you the original, and told
you this? I did not believe she could muster the resolution necessary
to such an act."

"She has not. You know, Bob, I am now of age; and my father, a month