impassivity gave sign of even temper. I do not like the miniature style
of portrait-painting, so I shall not catalogue the features of this girl
in the orthodox fashion. She would have drawn your eye in any crowd,
for she had that look of slight abstraction which always marks those who
are used at intervals to forget material things; and the composed mouth
and rather square chin hinted at a certain capacity for practical
affairs. The storm stirred her blood, and she murmured at last, "Terrors
take hold on him as waters; a tempest stealeth him away in the night.
The east wind carrieth him away, and he departeth; and as a storm
hurleth him out of his place."

I would have ventured to tell you a good deal about that young lady's
character, had I never heard her speak another word. The association,
the choice of words, the sombre music of the old English--all were
enough to show the bent of her mind.

At last she turned, and said, "When do you think we shall sight them?"

The man at the wheel shouted, "Somewheres towards midnight, Miss. We're
a-goin' through it middling smart, and we can always draw on them."

Then the girl went below into the warm glow of the saloon. A
sweet-faced lady smiled softly, and said, "Is it poetry to-night, or a
new scheme for regenerating everything?" The tone was caressing and
half-admiring, and the younger lady's still smile in reply was like a
revelation; it showed that she accepted banter, but was too serious to
return it. Marion Dearsley and her aunt, Mrs. Walton, understood each
other: the matron pretended to laugh at her niece's gravity, but the
genuine relation between the pair was that of profound mutual confidence
and fondness.