“Is Mrs. Fairchild still living?” he asked, indicating the house she had just left.
“ Mrs. Fairchild? O no,” she returned, surveying him out of the corner of a very roguish pair of brown eyes, with a certain sly wonder at the suspense in his voice. “She has been dead as long as I can remember. Old Miss Abby and her sister live there now.”
“And who are they?” he hurriedly asked; he could not bring himself to mention Paula’s name.
“Why, Miss Abby and Miss Belinda,” she returned with a puzzled air. “Miss Abby sews and Miss Belinda teaches the school. I don’t know anything more about them, sir.”
The courteous gentleman bowed. “And they live there quite alone?”
“O no sir, Paula lives with them.”
“Ah, she does;” and the young girl looking at him could not detect the slightest change in his haughty countenance. “Paula is Mrs. Fairchild’s daughter.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you,” said he, and allowed the pretty brown-eyed miss to pass on, which she did with lingering footsteps and many a backward glance of the eye.
Halting at the door of that small cottage, Edward Sylvester reasoned with himself.