After a time a voice called from the house:
“Carrigan!”
It was a marvelous voice. It was changed as the tone of a violin changes when it passes from the hands of an amateur to those of an artist.
“Is that my name?” said Carrigan, and he walked slowly toward the house.
She stood in the center of the room, with a piece of the wrapping-paper in which the bundle had been done up held before her face.
Carrigan started back until his shoulders touched the wall.
“My God!” he murmured with indescribable awe. “They fit!”
“But—” she said behind the paper.
“Well?”
She lowered the paper. The freckles looked out at him—and the eyes with plaintive brows raised by the hard knot of the hair. At the base of her throat was a line of sharp division. All above was a healthy brown. All below was a dazzling white.