On the same Saturday morning that Herbert Greyson hurried away from his friend's cottage, to travel post to Hurricane Hall, for the sole purpose of accelerating the coming of her good fortune, Marah Rocke walked about the house with a step so light, with eyes so bright and cheeks so blooming, that one might have thought that years had rolled backward in their course and made her a young girl again.
Traverse gazed upon her in delight. Reversing the words of the text, he said:
"We must call you no longer Marah (which is bitter), but we must call you Naomi (which is beautiful), mother!"
"Young flatterer!" she answered, smiling and slightly flushing. "But tell me truly, Traverse, am I very much faded? Have care and toil and grief made me look old?"
"You old?" exclaimed the boy, running his eyes over her beaming face and graceful form with a look of non-comprehension that might have satisfied her, but did not, for she immediately repeated:
"Yes; do I look old? Indeed I do not ask from vanity, child? Ah, it little becomes me to be vain; but I do wish to look well in some one's eyes."
"I wish there was a looking-glass in the house, mother, that it might tell you; you should be called Naomi instead of Marah."
"Ah! that is just what he used to say to me in the old, happy time—the time in Paradise, before the serpent entered!"
"What 'he,' mother?"