The Wife of the Candidate
glint in them when the woman laughed, the fashion in which the long lashes curled down on the cheek, the beautiful contour of the face, the waves of black hair coiled low on the neck, the turn of the head, a certain trick of speech, the very intonations of the voice—where had she met them all?
"You must not carry away a false impression," said her hostess, as the interview drew to a close, and her listener had the odd sensation of having heard her say this some time in the past. Mrs. Eddington, seeing the reporter's puzzled expression, smiled—and suddenly the rich tones of the library, lit up by the cheerful glow from the open grate, faded away, and a cold, bare room opening off a convent garden took its place. The white-robed figure standing there had said the same words with the same voice, the same gesture,—yes, the same smile. Miss Herrick remembered.
It was with a new thrill of interest that she looked again at the face before her. How vivid the resemblance was! But the interview was over and she closed her notebook. Her hostess, leaning back in her chair, was regard-
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