And then, Olive Raynor arrived.
I shall never forget that first sight of her. Heralded by a fragrant whiff of fresh violets, she came into the first room, and paused at the doorway of the middle room, where we still sat.
Framed in the mahogany door-casing, the lovely bit of femininity seemed a laughing bundle of furs, velvets, and laces.
“What’s the matter?” said a soft, sweet voice. “Has Uncle Amos run away? I hope he is in a sheltered place for there’s a ferocious storm coming up and the wind is blowing a gale.”
The nodding plumes on her hat tossed as she raised her head inquiringly and looked about.
“What do I smell?” she exclaimed; “it’s like—like pistol-smoke!”
“It is,” Mr. Talcott said. “But there’s no pistol here now——”
“How exciting! What’s it all about? Do tell me.”
Clearly the girl apprehended no serious matter. Her wide-open eyes showed curiosity and interest, but no thought of trouble had as yet come to her.
She stepped further into the room, and throwing back her furs revealed a slender graceful figure, quick of movement and of exquisite poise. Neither dark nor very fair, her wavy brown hair framed a face whose chief characteristic seemed to be its quickly changing expressions. Now smiling, then grave, now wondering, then merry, she looked from one to another of us, her big brown eyes coming to rest at last on Norah.