It was late in the afternoon of the following day when Willard Drummond left the lodge for Mrs. Tom's cottage. Curiosity to see the rescued ones prompted the visit as much as any other feeling; and he walked along rapidly, viewing the scene of desolation which the preceding night's tempest had left.
The cottage door was open to admit the pleasant sunshine, and Willard paused for a moment to view the scene before he entered.
Mrs. Tom went bustling about the room in her usual breezy, chirruping way, talking incessantly, but in a subdued tone, as though afraid of disturbing some one. Christie sat near the window, bending over her sewing, looking pale still, after the terror and excitement of the previous night. But Willard's eyes did not linger a moment on her; they were fixed, as if fascinated, on another, who lay back in Mrs. Tom's arm-chair, propped up with pillows.
It was the woman, or rather the girl, he had saved, What was there in that pale young face to make him start so vehemently, while the blood rushed in a crimson torrent to his very temples? He only saw a small, slight figure; short, crisp, golden curls clustering over a round, white, polished forehead; bright, saucy gray eyes, half veiled now under the long, silken eyelashes, resting on the pearly cheek; a little rosebud mouth, and a nose decidedly retrousse. It was not a wonderfully pretty face; but there was something bright, piquant, original, and charming about it—something daring, defiant, and high-spirited, as you could see even in its pallor and languor. She might have been sixteen, though she scarcely looked so old as that.
She lay back now with her little white hands folded listlessly on her lap, her veiled eyes fixed upon them with a dreamy, abstracted look, as of one whose thoughts are far away—replying low and languidly to Mrs. Tom's ceaseless questioning. And Willard Drummond, pale and excited, leaned against the door-post, gazing upon her like one who cannot believe his senses.
Suddenly Christie raised her eyes from her work, and uttered an ejaculation as she espied him. He could linger no longer, and like one who walks in his sleep, he passed in.
The clear, dark eyes of the little lady in the chair were raised as he entered, and fixed with a look of complete amazement on his face. Her dark eyes dilated—her lips parted in surprise, as she made an effort to rise from her chair, and then sank back exhausted.
"Willard Drummond!" broke in surprise from her lips.
"Laura!" he exclaimed.
And he was by her side in an instant, holding her hands in his, and gazing in her eyes with a look that would have aroused Sibyl's jealousy, had she been present, but which only puzzled Christie, who, with Mrs. Tom, looked on in astonishment.