he remarked a difference that was puzzling until he understood its
origin. Mrs. Featherstone had an unmistakable stamp of dignity, but
her face was gentle and her look very friendly; her daughter was tall
and Foster thought remarkably graceful, with an air of pride and
reserve, although this vanished when she gave him a frank welcoming
smile. Featherstone, who was older than his wife, had short, gray
hair, and a lined, brown face, but looked strong and carried himself
well.

Foster, who liked them at once, wondered rather anxiously whether he
had pleased or disappointed them. But he imagined that they would
reserve their opinion. They were, of course, not the people to show
what they thought, and if he had felt any embarrassment, they would
have known how to put him at his ease. Still his type was, no doubt,
new to them and his views might jar. He did not remember what they
said, but they somehow made him feel he was not a stranger but a friend
who had a claim, and when he went to his room he knew he would enjoy
his stay with Featherstone's people.




VI

HIS COMRADE'S STORY

Foster spent the most part of the next day in the open air with his
host. Featherstone had a quiet, genial manner and seemed to have read
much, though he held the narrow views that sometimes mark the
untraveled Englishman. He appeared to be scrupulously just and showed