difference that she smiled down at him.

"You will spare me further distress, will you not, please?" His
hoarse reply was incoherent, but she needed only to see his
working face to know his remorse and gratitude.

Madeline went back to her room; and presently Florence came for
her, and directly they were sitting at breakfast. Madeline
Hammond's impression of her brother's friend had to be
reconstructed in the morning light. She felt a wholesome, frank,
sweet nature. She liked the slow Southern drawl. And she was
puzzled to know whether Florence Kingsley was pretty or striking
or unusual. She had a youthful glow and flush, the clear tan of
outdoors, a face that lacked the soft curves and lines of Eastern
women, and her eyes were light gray, like crystal, steady, almost
piercing, and her hair was a beautiful bright, waving mass.

Florence's sister was the elder of the two, a stout woman with a
strong face and quiet eyes. It was a simple fare and service
they gave to their guest; but they made no apologies for that.
Indeed, Madeline felt their simplicity to be restful. She was
sated with respect, sick of admiration, tired of adulation; and
it was good to see that these Western women treated her as very
likely they would have treated any other visitor. They were
sweet, kind; and what Madeline had at first thought was a lack of
expression or vitality she soon discovered to be the natural
reserve of women who did not live superficial lives. Florence
was breezy and frank, her sister quaint and not given much to
speech. Madeline thought she would like to have these women near
her if she were ill or in trouble. And she reproached herself