Catching a glimpse of Mr. Angus's tall form standing over near the door, his hat in his hand, keen appreciation of the scene stamped on every feature, Marion's color surged to her very brow. She whispered, "Go to the gentleman now, Genie," and put the boy to the floor.
"Will you take a drive with me, Eugene?"
This being soon arranged, Mr. Angus carried the child to the buggy, merely saying to Marion,—
"I will be back in half an hour."
Mrs. Cheriton looked so very youthful that it was hard for Marion to believe she could be the mother of Eugene. She was very beautiful, of the Southern type of beauty,—large, liquid eyes, regular features, abundant tresses of blue-black hair, which on the present occasion were wound gracefully around her head, arched eyebrows, and a pleasant smile when she addressed you. This tout ensemble the visitor took in at a glance, and all the time she was asking herself, "Shall I like her?"
After speaking for a moment of Eugene, Marion said,—
"Mr. Angus tells me your mother is very ill."
"Yes; and she has heard your voice. Will you go to her?"
"Gladly."
On the bed, but raised almost to a sitting posture, lay a lady. One glance proved her to be such. There was an air of refinement and culture about her which proved her to belong to the best-educated class of society.