ISABEL


There were two dwellings in the Winslow garden,--one as far across at
the right of the Byington house as the other was at the left. The one on
the right may have contained six or eight bedchambers; the other had but
three. The larger stood withdrawn from the public way, a well-preserved
and very attractive example of colonial architecture, refined to the
point of delicacy in the grace and harmony of its details. Here dwelt
Arthur Winslow, barely six weeks a clergyman, alone but for two or three
domestics and the rare visits of Godfrey, his only living relation. The
other and older house, in the garden's southern front corner, was a gray
gambrel-roofed cottage, with its threshold at the edge of the sidewalk;
and it was from this cottage that Isabel and her mother stepped,
gratefully answering the affectionate wave of Ruth's hand,--Mrs. Morris
with the dignity of her forty-odd years, and Isabel with a sudden eager
fondness. The next moment the two couples were hidden from each other by
the umbrageous garden and by the tall white fence, in which was repeated
the architectural grace of the larger house.

Mother and daughter conversed quietly, but very busily, as they came
along this enclosure; but presently they dropped their subject to bow
cordially across to the father of Ruth, and when he endeavored to say
something to them Mrs. Morris moved toward him. Isabel took a step or
two more in the direction of the Winslow elm and its inviting bench, but
then she also turned. She was of a moderate feminine stature and perfect
outline, her step elastic, her mien self-contained, and her face so
young that a certain mature tone in her mellow voice was often the cause
of Ruth's fond laughter. As winsome, too, she was, as she was beautiful,
and "as pink as a rose," said the old-time soldier to himself, as he