Standing on the step of the door, with the dark background behind her, she appeared like some fair portrait suddenly set in its frame.
Changed as she was since he had last seen her—a young girl in coarse, copperas-dyed gown of homespun stuff, bareheaded, stockingless and shoeless—he who stood among the trees might not so readily have recognised her had he met her elsewhere; but there, upon that spot where stood the old cabin, under whose roof he had lived and loved—loved her—recognition came at the first glance. He knew that the fair vision before him was Lena Rook, still living, still lovely as ever.
Story 1--Chapter XV.
Lena’s Recognition.
The first impulse of the young man was to spring forth from his ambush, leap over the creek, a mere rivulet, and rush into the presence of the fair creature who had shown herself in the doorway.
He was restrained by a crowd of thoughts that came surging up at the moment—doubts and memories—both painful. Her father might be still alive and inside the house. The stranger had serious reasons for not wishing to see him. Or he might be dead and she now under the control of another!
The last thought was agonising, and he gazed intently upon the girl as if searching for some sign that would release him from the torture of suspense. Scarce twenty yards from where she stood, he could see the sparkle of jewellery upon the fingers of her left hand. Did one of them carry that thin circlet of gold to show she was lost to him for ever?
His glance, instinctively directed to her hand, now traced the contour of her person, and once more mounted to her face. Form and features were alike scrutinised—the colour of her cheeks—the expression in her eyes—the air that pervaded all.