glimmer of recognition in the well-bred, careless glance which swept him once or twice.  No, he had passed out of her memory—­with the other shapes and shadows!  How strange they should meet again, thousands of miles from New England; how strange that he alone, of all the crowded city, should know there had been a dark episode in this girl’s history!  What words she had spoken to him and forgotten, she who now sat there robed in the beauty of her reason!

It was a natural interest, and a deep interest, certainly, that impelled Lynde to seek the acquaintance of the two ladies.  On the third day a chance service rendered the elder—­she had left a glove or a handkerchief beside her plate at table, and Lynde had followed her with it from the dining-room—­placed him upon speaking terms.  They were his country-women, he was a gentleman, and the surface ice was easily broken.  Three days afterwards Lynde found himself oddly doubting his first conviction.  This was not that girl!  The likeness was undeniable:  the same purple-black hair, the same long eyelashes, a very distinctive feature.  In voice and carriage, too, Miss Denham curiously recalled the other; and that mark on Miss Denham’s cheek—­a birth-mark—­was singular 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.