For a considerable time I felt hopelessly puzzled. All at once it struck
me--girls are the same all over the world and in all ages--that she
must come there to look at the photograph of someone she cared for; to
say good-night to it; perhaps to murmur a prayer over it. Girls are made
so. Doubtless she would take it away with her altogether to some place
more convenient for such oblations but that Duncan was much in the
library, and had lynx-eyes.
I grew troubled, these nocturnal visits continuing, and wished that I
could help her. I thought if I could only find out whose the photograph
was, perhaps I might.
One night I could bear it no longer. I am aware that I must seem a most
prying old woman; but somehow or other this library was fated to be
mixed up with my life. I rose and just peeped round the library door to
see what she was doing. She was standing in the clear moonlight--not, as
I had expected, with an open photograph album, but holding a little
miniature, taken from its place on the table. I went back to bed, my
heart bounding. I knew now! I did not sleep much that night.
Perhaps I acted rashly--but I thought I should apply to Paul for help. I
was sure, from various signs, that he did not hate my Janet's bairn now.
I told him of these stolen visits to the library, and tried to persuade
him to conceal himself and watch there--for the purpose of finding out
whose the portrait was. I did not tell him, deceitful woman that I was,
that I myself already knew.
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