looked upon it for the first time, he saw, as in a glass, the
reflection of a character and a life. There was the gold and the
clay. The brow and eyes were finely shaped and lustrous, giving to
the upper half of the face grandeur and repose, but the mouth and
chin fell off into a coarser mould, and told of a spirit other
than that so nobly framed under the rich masses of her dark hair.
It was a face with a fascination--not the fascination of evil, but
of struggle--a face betraying battle between forces pretty evenly
balanced in the soul. But there was victory on it. Mr. Penrose saw
it, read it, understood it. There were still traces of the
scorching fire; these, however, were yielding to the verdure of a
new life; the garden, which had been turned into a wilderness, was
again blossoming as the rose.

'Amanda, here's Mr. Penrose to see thee. I've bin tellin' him it's
all dark to thee. It is, isn't it?'

But Amanda turned her head towards the wall, and answered not.

'Amanda!' said the mother, in tones that only once or twice, and
that in the great crises of maternity, fall from woman's
lips--'Amanda, speyk. Tell him what's botherin' thee.'

But the girl was silent.

Mr. Penrose was silent also, and nothing was heard in the room
save the tremulous beat of an old watch that hung over the
chimney-shelf--one of the memorials of a husband and father long
since taken, and now almost forgotten.