The carriage jolted through Kingsborough, and Eugenia bowed smilingly to her acquaintances. Once she stopped to shake hands with the rector and again to kiss Sally Burwell, who flew into her arms.
"Why, Eugie! you—you beauty!" she cried. Eugenia laughed delightedly, her black eyes glowing.
"Am I good-looking?" she asked. "I'm so glad. But I'll never be as pretty as you, you dear, sweet thing. I'm too big."
They laughed and kissed again, and Eugenia stepped from the carriage to greet the judge, who was passing.
"This is a sight for sore eyes, my dear," said the judge, his fine old face wreathed in smiles. Then, as his gaze ran over her full, straight figure, "they make fine women these days," he added. "You're as tall as your father—though you're your mother's child. Yes, I can see Amelia Tucker in your eyes."
"Thank you—thank you," said the girl in a throaty voice. There was a glow, a warmth, a fervour in her face which harmonised the chill black and white of her colouring. Her expression was as a lamp to illumine the mask of her features.
"I couldn't stay away," she went on breathlessly. "I love Kingsborough better than the whole world."
"And Kingsborough loves you," returned the judge. "Yes, it is a good old town and well worth dying in, after all."
He assisted Eugenia into the carriage, shook hands again, and the lumbering old vehicle jogged on its way. In a moment another halt was called, and Mrs. Webb came from her gate to give the girl welcome.
"This is a surprise," she said as she kissed her. "I dined at Battle Hall last week, and they didn't tell me you were coming."