CHAPTER V.
A lovely June day was drawing to a close, as a stage coach drew up at the one hotel in the little village of Waveland.
"Here at last, mum," said the driver, stepping forward to assist a lady to alight. "It's been a tedious ride for a delicate looking lady like you."
She was delicate looking, and very pretty, with an air of refinement that betokened good birth and careful culture.
"Yes," she said, "it has been a weary day's journey, and I shall be glad to rest."
She went into the little homespun sitting-room, and laid aside her bonnet and shawl, then went to the window, and looked out in an absent way. The high, pure brow, and calm, thoughtful eyes, remind us of one we have met before, and the slender, nervous hands, locked after her old fashion when troubled, prove that it is none other than our young friend, Clemence Graystone.
"Jerushy! ain't she style?"
Her reverie came abruptly to an end, and with a momentary feeling of annoyance, she retreated from the window, as this exclamation startled her into the knowledge that half of the inhabitants of the little village were already out and gazing at her.
"What can I do for you, Miss?" asked the obsequious landlord, a moment after. It was evident that guests beneath his hospitable roof were "like angel's visits, few and far between."
"Supper and a room."