never seen the lady before, yet there was something in her features strangely familiar.
The colour came rapidly into her cheek: her heart told her the face now before her brought the memory of one still too dearly remembered—it was Norbourne Courtenaye that it recalled; the likeness was, despite the difference of sex and age, singularly striking.
What a vain thing is forced forgetfulness! For months Ethel had sedulously banished one image from her thoughts, and she fancied that she had succeeded: alas! even a chance and casual resemblance sufficed to make her tremble with emotion. To such emotion she had long made it a rule not to give way. She steadied her voice; though, with all her resolution, it was a little tremulous; and, entreating her visitor to be seated, asked what were her commands.
The stranger appeared almost to forget that it was her business to speak: she fixed her dark, penetrating eyes on the beautiful girl, who stood, blushing and confused, at the scrutiny.
