terrified understanding through their eyes.

The old-fashioned latch of the door was heard to rattle, and a push from
without made the door shake ineffectually. "It's Henry," Rebecca sighed
rather than whispered. Mrs. Brigham settled herself, after a noiseless
rush across the floor, into her rocking-chair again, and was swaying
back and forth with her head comfortably leaning back, when the door at
last yielded and Henry Glynn entered. He cast a covertly sharp,
comprehensive glance at Mrs. Brigham with her elaborate calm; at Rebecca
quietly huddled in the corner of the sofa with her handkerchief to her
face and only one small uncovered reddened ear as attentive as a dog's,
and at Caroline sitting with a strained composure in her armchair by the
stove. She met his eyes quite firmly with a look of inscrutable fear,
and defiance of the fear and of him.

Henry Glynn looked more like this sister than the others. Both had the
same hard delicacy of form and aquilinity of feature. They confronted
each other with the pitiless immovability of two statues in whose
marble lineaments emotions were fixed for all eternity.

Then Henry Glynn smiled and the smile transformed his face. He looked
suddenly years younger, and an almost boyish recklessness appeared in
his face. He flung himself into a chair with a gesture which was
bewildering from its incongruity with his general appearance. He leaned
his head back, flung one leg over the other, and looked laughingly at
Mrs. Brigham.

"I declare, Emma, you grow younger every year," he said.

She flushed a little, and her placid mouth widened at the corners. She