enough. But there the analogies ended. Miss Denham was a young woman who
obviously had seen much of the world; she possessed accomplishments
which could have been acquired only by uninterrupted application; she
spoke French, German, and Italian with unusual purity. That intellect,
as strong and clear as crystal, could never have suffered even a
temporary blur. He was beginning to be amazed at the blunder he had
committed, when suddenly, one evening, a peculiar note in her voice,
accompanied by a certain lifting of the eyelashes--a movement he had
noticed for the first time, but which was familiar to him--threw Lynde
into great perplexity. It WAS that other girl! How useless for him to
try to blind himself to the truth! Besides, why should he wish to, and
why should the fact of the identity trouble him to such a degree? The
next day he was staggered by Miss Denham alluding incidentally to the
circumstance that she and her aunt had passed a part of the spring of
1872 in Florida. That was the date of Lynde's adventure, the spring of
1872. Here was almost positive proof that Miss Denham could not have
been in New England at the time. Lynde did not know what to think. Of
course he was mistaken; he must be mistaken--and yet! There were moments
when he could not look at Miss Denham without half expecting to see the
man Blaisdell flitting somewhere in the background. Then there were days
when it was impossible for Lynde to picture her as anything different
from what she now was. But whatever conclusion he came to, a doubt
directly insinuated itself.

While he was drifting from one uncertainty to another, a fortnight
elapsed in which his intimacy with the Denhams had daily increased. They
were in Geneva for an indefinite time, awaiting directions from Mr.
Denham. The few sights in the city had been exhausted; the places of
interest in the environs could not be visited by ladies without escort;
so it fell out that Lynde accompanied the Denhams on several short