Elizabeth's face changed, and her eyes lifted themselves not up again. The colour rose, and spread, and deepened, and her head only bent lower down over the paper. That thrust was with a barbed weapon. And there was a profound hush, and a bended head and a pained brow, till a hand came gently between her eyes and the paper and occupied the fingers that held it. It was the same hand that her fancy had once seen full of character — she saw it again now; her thoughts made a spring hack to that time and then to this. She looked up.
It was a look to see. There was a witching mingling of the frank, the childlike, and the womanly, in her troubled face; frankness that would not deny the truth that her monitor seemed to have read, a childlike simplicity of shame that he should have divined it, and a womanly self-respect that owned it had nothing to be ashamed of. These were not all the feelings that were at work, nor that shewed their working; and it was a face of brilliant expression that Elizabeth lifted to her companion. In the cheeks the blood spoke brightly; in the eyes, fire; there was more than one tear there, too; and the curve of the lips was unbent with a little tremulous play. Winthrop must have been a man of self-command to have stood it; but he looked apparently no more concerned than if old Karen had lifted up her face at him.
"Do you know," she said, and the moved line of the lips might plainly be seen, — "you are making it the more hard for me to learn your lesson, even in the very giving it me?"
"What shall I do?"
Elizabeth hesitated, and conquered herself.
"I guess you needn't do anything," she said half laughing.
"I'll try and do my part."
There was a little answer of the face then, that sent
Elizabeth's eyes to the ground.
"What do you mean by these words?" she said looking at them again.
"I don't mean anything. I simply give them to you."
"Yes, and I might see an old musket standing round the house; but if you take it up and present it at me, it is fair to ask, what you mean?"