The Girl's Own Paper, Vol. XX, No. 980, October 8, 1898

By JESSIE MANSERGH (Mrs. G. de Horne Vaizey), Author of A Girl in Springtime, Sisters Three, etc.
THE INTRODUCTION. ( See CHAP. III.)
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The afternoon post had come in, and the Vicar of Renton stood in the large bay window of his library reading his budget of letters. He was a tall, thin man, with a close shaven face, which had no beauty of feature, but which was wonderfully attractive all the same. It was not an old face, but it was deeply lined, and those who knew and loved him best could tell the history and meaning of each of those eloquent tracings. The deep vertical mark running up the forehead meant sorrow. It had been stamped there for ever on the night when Hubert, his first-born, had been brought back, cold and lifeless, from the river to which he had hurried forth but an hour before, a picture of happy boyhood, in his white boating flannels. The Vicar's brow had been smooth enough before that day; the furrow was graven to the memory of Teddy, the golden-haired lad who had first taught him the joys of fatherhood. The network of little lines about the eyes were caused by the hundred and one little worries of every-day life, and the strain of working a delicate body to its fullest pitch; and the two long, deep streaks down the cheeks bore testimony to that happy sense of humour which showed the bright side of a question, and helped him out of many a slough of despair. This afternoon, as he stood reading his letters one by one, the different lines deepened, or smoothed out, according to the nature of the missive. Now he smiled, now he sighed, anon he crumpled up his face in puzzled thought, until the last letter of all was reached, when he did all three in succession, ending up with a low whistle of surprise—
Edith! This is from Mrs. Saville. Just look at this!
Instantly there came a sound of hurried rising from the other end of the room; a wicker-work basket swayed to and fro on a rickety gipsy table, and the Vicar's wife walked hurriedly towards him, rolling half-a-dozen reels of thread in her wake, with an air of fine indifference.