No longer confined to her bed by illness, it could now be seen that she was a handsome woman, hardly more than thirty-five, and with the indelible stamp of refinement upon her.
Her face wore a sad look, and no flush warmed the marble-like complexion.
Her eyes were large and dreamy, seeming to be looking backward into a past clouded with bitter memory rather than lighted with hope for the future.
She was dressed in a close-fitting robe of mourning, and a miniature breastpin, and band of gold upon her wedding-finger were the only things that relieved the severe plainness of her appearance.
Old Peggy, a woman who had lived here fifty years, but was strong and active, sat in a chair before a blazing pine knot, and in answer to the remark of Mrs. Merrill, chimed in, like Job’s comforter, with:
“Well, it would be just like him; but never you fear for him, miss, for he’s not born to be drowned, that boy isn’t, and sometimes I almost fear he’s born to be hanged, he does escape the dangers of the sea so constant.”
“Oh, Peggy, don’t speak so, for you fairly frighten me,” and the slender, graceful form thrilled at the thought.
“Well, Miss Gladys, he’s not one to be hanged, either. He’s a boy who can take care of himself, come what may, for you remember what the doctor told you, how he went for rich Merchant Clemmons’ son and Ben Birney?”
“Yes, Mark will not be imposed on, gentle as is his nature; but I only wish I knew where he was.”
“So do I, miss, for the supper is getting cold waiting for him.”