"Do you look like your mother?" she asked.
"Papa says I do, and Uncle Maje thinks so too. She was very pretty,"
This came with an unconscious placidity.
"She looks almost as her mother's picture did," I said.
When the child had gone, Miss Lansdale searched my face long before
speaking. She seemed to hesitate for words, and at length to speak of
other matters than those which might have perplexed her.
"Why did they call you 'Horsehead'?" she asked almost kindly.
"I never asked. It seemed to be a common understanding. Doubtless there
was good reason for it, as good as there is for calling Budlow 'Fatty.'"
"What did you do?" she asked again.
"I went to the war with what I could take--nothing but a picture."
"And you lost that?"
"Yes--under peculiar circumstances. It seemed a kind thing to do at the
time."
"And you came back with--"
"_With yours, Little Miss!_"
Some excitement throbbed between us so that I had involuntarily
emphasized my words. Briefly her eyes clung to mine, and very slowly we
relaxed from that look.
"I only wanted to say," she began presently, "that I shall have to
believe your absurd tale of my picture being with you before you saw me.
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