There was some reason for his incredulity. Jack was a stout,
good-looking boy, with a pleasant face; but Ida's beauty was of a
delicate, refined type, which argued gentle birth,--her skin of a
brilliant whiteness, dashed by a tinge of rose,--exhibiting a
physical perfection, which it requires several generations of
refined habits and exemptions from the coarser burdens of life to
produce. The perfection of human development is not wholly a matter
of chance, but is dependent, in no small degree, upon outward
conditions. We frequently see families who have sprung from poverty
to wealth exhibiting, in the younger branches, marked improvement in
this respect.
"Yes;" said Jack, "my sister."
"If it is your sister," said the clerk, "you ought to know where she
is."
Jack was about to reply, when the attention of both was called by a
surprised exclamation from a lady who had paused beside them. Her
eyes, also, were fixed upon "The Flower-Girl."
"Who is this?" she asked, hurriedly. "Is it taken from life?"
"This young man says it is his sister," said the clerk.
"Your sister!" said the lady, her eyes bent, inquiringly, upon Jack.
In her tone, too, there was a slight mingling of surprise, and, as
it seemed, disappointment.
"Yes, madam," said Jack, respectfully.
"Pardon me," she said, "there is so little family resemblance, I
should hardly have supposed it.
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