"
"And his eyes? There, you needn't tell me. I ought to know. The eyes are
grey with dark lashes. You might take them for black. It is Anthony
Cardew to the life."
"Snow-white hair," I added.
"Snow-white hair," Miss Bride repeated. "No, no. It can't be Anthony
Cardew, unless there are white blackbirds. Hair black as jet."
"Perhaps Captain Cardew may have become white, sister," Miss Henrietta
put in humbly.
"White! What would make him white?" Miss Bride asked angrily. "He can't
be forty. I remember him the very day his sister was run away with--"
She pulled herself up suddenly, and turned to me with an air of great
kindness.
"'Tis my tongue is running away with me," she said. "Excuse me, Bawn, my
dear. Your stranger sounds like Anthony Cardew, but I don't see that it
can be he. He was raven-black. Better think no more of him. I wouldn't
waste a thought on any man. I wonder why the Lord made them."
I had stood up to go. I think I had known all the time that my fine
gentleman and Anthony Cardew were one and the same, had understood all
the time why he was so certain that his presence in our woods would be
unwelcome to my grandparents.
"You never know where he might be, Anthony Cardew," Miss Bride went on,
holding my hand.
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