Aunt Jane's Nieces at Work
As he took his seat Tom gave a half-frightened glance into Eliza's face
and then turned red as she smiled coquettishly and said:
"Dear me! It's the young man who called me his dear Lucy."
"You--you're very like her," stammered Tom, unable to take his eyes from
her face. "Even now I--I can't believe I'm mistaken."
She laughed merrily in a sweet, musical voice, and then suddenly stopped
with her hand on her heart and cast at him a startled look that was in
such sharp contrast to her former demeanor that he rose from his chair.
"Sit down, please," she said, slowly. And then she studied his face with
sober earnestness--with almost wistful longing. But she shook her head
presently, and sighed; and a moment later had regained her lightness of
manner.
"It's a relief to have a quiet house for a day, isn't it?" she asked,
eating her soup calmly. "I'll be glad when the election's over."
"Have you been here long?" he asked, although Beth had told him of
Eliza's coming to Elmhurst.
"Only a short time. And you?"
"Two days," said he. "But where did you live before you came here?"
She shook her head.
"I wish you would answer me," he begged. "I have a reason for asking."
"What reason?" she demanded, suddenly serious again.
"Two people have never lived that were so near alike as you and Lucy
Rogers."
"Indeed?"
"Will you show me your left arm?"
"No."
She was again studying his face.
"If you are Lucy Rogers you have a scar there--a scar where you burned
yourself years ago."
She seemed frightened for a moment. Then she said:
"I have no scar on my left arm."
"Will you prove it?"
"No. You are annoying me. What did you say your name is?"
"Tom Gates."
She was thoughtful for a moment and then shook her head.
"I have never heard of you," she declared, positively, and resumed her
eating.
Tom was nonplussed. One moment he believed she was Lucy, and the next
told himself that it was impossible. This girl possessed mannerisms that
Lucy had never exhibited in all the years he had known her.
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There was once an honest journeyman tailor, by name Labakan, who learned his trade with an excellent master in Alexandria. It could not be said that Labakan was unhandy with the needle; on the contrary, he could make excellent work: moreover, one would have done him injustice to have called him lazy. Nevertheless, his companions knew not what to make of him, for he would often sew for hours together so rapidly that the needle would glow in his hand, and the thread smoke, and that none could equal him.
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