The young clergyman was of a good average height, but he looked taller from a certain distinction of figure. When he raised his hat at the captain's greeting he showed a forehead like an arched wall, and a large, close-cropped head. He had a well-formed nose, a powerful chin, and full lips—all very strong and set for one so young. His complexion was dark—almost swarthy—and there was a certain look of the gipsy in his big golden-brown eyes with their long black lashes. He was clean shaven, and the lower part of his face seemed heavy under the splendid fire of the eyes above it. His manner had a sort of diffident restraint; he stood on the same spot without moving, and almost without raising his drooping head; his speech was grave and usually slow and laboured; his voice was bold and full.
The second bell had rung, and the old parson was making ready to go ashore.
“You'll take care of this runaway, Mr. Storm, and deliver her safely at the door of the hospital?”
“I will.”
“And you'll keep an eye on her in that big Babylon over there?”
“If she'll let me, sir.”
“Yes, indeed, yes; I know she's as unstable as water and as hard to hold as a puff of wind.”
The girl was laughing again. “You might as well call me a tempest and have done with it, or,” with a glance at the younger man, “say a storm—Glory St—— Oh!”
With a little catch of the breath she arrested the name before it was uttered by her impetuous tongue, and laughed again to cover her confusion. The young man smiled faintly and rather painfully, but the old parson was conscious of nothing.
“Well, and why not? A good name for you too, and you richly deserve it.—But the Lord is lenient with such natures, John. He never tries them beyond their strength. She hasn't much leaning to religion, you know.”