holding the linen package well away from him, as if it were a
disagreeable insect. He had never seen much of Annie Eustace. Now
and then he called upon one of her aunts, who avowed her preference
for his religious denomination, but if he saw Annie at all, she
was seated engaged upon some such doubtfully ornamental or useful
task, as the specimen which he now carried. Truth to say, he
had scarcely noticed Annie Eustace at all. She had produced the
effect of shrinking from observation under some subtle shadow of
self-effacement. She was in reality a very rose of a girl, loving and
sweet, and withal wonderfully endowed; but this human rose, dwelt
always for Karl von Rosen, in the densest of bowers through which her
beauty and fragrance of character could not penetrate his senses.
Undoubtedly also, although his masculine intelligence would have
scouted the possibility of such a thing, Annie's dull, ill-made garb
served to isolate her. She also never came to church. That perfect
little face with its expression of strange insight, must have aroused
his attention among his audience. But there was only the Aunt Harriet
Eustace, an exceedingly thin lady, present and always attired in rich
blacks. Karl von Rosen to-day walking as rapidly as became his
dignity, in pursuit of the young woman, was aware that he hardly felt
at liberty to accost her with anything more than the greeting of the
day. He eyed disapprovingly the parcel which he carried. It was a
very dingy white, and greyish threads dangled from it. Von Rosen
thought it a most unpleasant thing, and reflected with mild scorn and
bewilderment concerning the manner of mind which could find amusement
over such employment, for he divined that it was a specimen of
feminine skill, called fancy work.

Annie Eustace ran so swiftly with those long agile legs of hers that
he soon perceived that interception upon her return, and not