[CHAPTER XII.]
MARION'S SICKNESS.
THE drive back to town was a silent one, and not until they were within a short distance from home was a word spoken. Mr. Angus seemed absorbed in thought, and his companion, with the added care of the friends she had just left, was little inclined for conversation. A sigh from her at last caused the gentleman to ask,—
"Have I done wrong in bringing to your notice these strangers?"
"No, sir. No, indeed. What a dear old lady she is! And not very old either. Sorrow, I imagine, more than time, has aged her. Eugene is a perfect dream of boyish beauty."
"What of the young mother?"
Marion sighed again. "I don't know. I have been trying to decide. I have seen somebody whom she resembles. She does not attract me as her mother does."
"Eugene scarcely has a feature like hers."
"No, he is more like you than like her."
She had entirely forgotten her high praise of the boy's beauty; but a little twitching about the muscles of his mouth proved that he remembered and was far from displeased.