"I remember," said Maltravers, much struck and interested in her question
and manner, "that a lady was present."

"It is so! it is so!" cried the woman, half rising and clasping her
hands. "And she passed by this cottage a little time ago; her veil was
thrown aside as she turned that fair young face towards the cottage. Her
name, sir,--oh, what is her name? It was the same--the same face that
shone across me in that hour of pain! I did not dream! I was not mad!"

"Compose yourself; you could never, I think, have seen that lady before.
Her name is Cameron."

"Cameron--Cameron!" The woman shook her head mournfully. "No; that name
is strange to me. And her mother, sir,--she is dead?"

"No; her mother lives."

A shade came over the face of the sufferer; and she said, after a
pause,--

"My eyes deceive me then, sir; and, indeed, I feel that my head is
touched, and I wander sometimes. But the likeness was so great; yet that
young lady is even lovelier!"

"Likenesses are very deceitful and very capricious, and depend more on
fancy than reality. One person discovers a likeness between faces most
dissimilar,--a likeness invisible to others. But who does Miss Cameron
resemble?"