The lad shut his lips together -- how much his mouth was like his father 's -- and looked out seaward with troubled blue eyes . Turner smiled another grim smile . Oh , Neil Jameson , your old score was being paid now ! Yet something embittered the sweetness of revenge . That boy 's face -- he could not hate it as he had accustomed himself to hate the memory of Neil Jameson and all connected with him . `` What was your mother 's name before she married your father ? '' he demanded abruptly . `` Lisbeth Miller , '' answered the boy , still frowning seaward over his secret thoughts . Turner started again . Lisbeth Miller ! He might have known it . What woman in all the world save Lisbeth Miller could have given her son those eyes and curls ? So Lisbeth had married Neil Jameson -- little Lisbeth Miller , his schoolboy sweetheart . He had forgotten her -- or thought he had ; certainly he had not thought of her for years . But the memory of her came back now with a rush . Little Lisbeth -- pretty little Lisbeth -- merry little Lisbeth ! How clearly he remembered her ! The old Miller place had adjoined his uncle 's farm . Lisbeth and he had played together from babyhood . How he had worshipped her !
When they were six years old they had solemnly promised XXXXX marry each other when they grew up , and Lisbeth had let him kiss her as earnest of their compact , made under a bloom-white apple tree in the Miller orchard .
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