She opened a little drawer in her writing-desk.
It contained the few personal relics which she
could not bring herself to destroy. She was
not given to the hoarding up of sentimental
trifles; and the preservation of these keepsakes
was a concession to that weaker side of her
nature which she kept under with so steady a
hand. She very seldom allowed herself to look
at them.
Now she took them out, one after another:
Giovanni's first letter to her, and the flowers that
had lain in his dead hand; a lock of her baby's
hair and a withered leaf from her father's grave.
At the back of the drawer was a miniature portrait
of Arthur at ten years old--the only existing
likeness of him.
She sat down with it in her hands and looked
at the beautiful childish head, till the face of the
real Arthur rose up afresh before her. How clear
it was in every detail! The sensitive lines of the
mouth, the wide, earnest eyes, the seraphic purity
of expression--they were graven in upon her
memory, as though he had died yesterday.
Pages:
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307