Her mother had told me this definitely.

It had been clutched in his hands, and she, after a look, had tenderly replaced it to stay with his dust forever.

This I had forgotten at first, in my eagerness for light.
I pressed the spring that brought the face to my eyes, knowing it would not be her face.

Close to the light I studied it; the face of a girl, eighteen or so, with dreaming eyes that looked beyond me.

It could not be Miss Lansdale, and yet it was strangely like her--like the Little Miss she must once have been.
But one mystery at least was now plain--the mystery of my own mind picture.