There was a name written in them--ah! I cannot remember it--it
was English."
"Moore?" asked Mrs. Treherne. "Stay, I will write it. Magdalen
Moore--was that it?"
"Yes," said Madelon; "I think it was--yes, I know it was. I
remember the letters now. But I have something of hers here,
too," she added--"a letter, that I found in the pocket of this
dress--this was mamma's once, and it was in the trunk. Shall I
fetch it?--it is upstairs."
"Yes, I should like to see it, my dear. You will wonder at all
these questions, but, if I am not mistaken, your mother was a
very dear friend of mine."
Madelon left the room, and Mrs. Treherne, sitting down at the
table, began to arrange her breakfast-cups. Horace was
standing with one arm on the mantel-piece, gazing into the
fire; he had been silent during this short interview, but as
Madelon disappeared,--
"Is she at all like her mother?" he inquired.
"She is like--yes, certainly she is like; her eyes remind me of
Magdalen's--and yet she is unlike, too."
"You must be prepared," said Horace, after a moment's pause,
"to find her devoted to her father's memory; and not without
reason, I must say, for he was devoted to her, after his own
fashion.
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