himself unaffected at this moment. Turning toward the witness with a look which, while respectful, had a touch of austerity in it, he began:
"You have been an intimate of Mr. Leavenworth’s family from childhood, they tell me, Miss Leavenworth?"
"From my tenth year," was her quiet reply.
It was the first time I had heard her voice, and it surprised me; it was so like, and yet so unlike, that of her cousin. Similar in tone, it lacked its expressiveness, if I may so speak; sounding without vibration on the ear, and ceasing without an echo.
"Since that time you have been treated like a daughter, they tell me?"
"Yes, sir, like a daughter, indeed; he was more than a father to both of us."
"You and Miss Mary Leavenworth are cousins, I believe. When did she enter the family?"
"At the same time I did. Our respective parents were victims of the same disaster. If it had not been for our uncle, we should have been thrown, children as we were, upon the world. But he"—here she paused, her firm lips breaking into a half tremble—"but he, in the goodness of his heart, adopted us into his family, and gave us what we had both lost, a father and a home."
"You say he was a father to you as well as to your cousin—that he adopted you. Do you mean by that, that he not only surrounded you with present luxury, but gave you to understand that the same should be secured to you after his death; in short, that he intended to leave any portion of his property to you?"
"No, sir; I was given to understand, from the first, that his property would be bequeathed by will to my cousin."
