"He looked like--a man."
"How old was he--I mean, when he fell in love with you?" said Mrs. Wentworth, with a sort of gasp, as she recalled Mr. Lancaster's gray hair and elderly appearance.
"Rather young. He was only a few years older than I was; a young--what's his name?--Hercules, that brought me down a mountain in his arms the second time I ever saw him."
"Alice Lancaster!"
"I had broken my leg--almost I had got a bad fall from a horse and could not walk, and he happened to come along."
"Of course. How romantic! Was he a doctor? Did you do it on purpose?" Mrs. Lancaster smiled.
"No; a young schoolmaster up in the mountains. He was not handsome--not then. But he was fine-looking, eyes that looked straight at you and straight through you; the whitest teeth you ever saw; and shoulders! He could carry a sack of salt!" At the recollection a faint smile flickered about her lips.
"Why didn't you marry him?"
"He had not a cent in the world. He was a poor young school-teacher, but of a very distinguished family. However, mamma took fright, and whisked me away as if he had been a pestilence."
"Oh, naturally!"