"Yes, indeed; as good as gold," assented Katie, wondering if Elizabeth's fatigue had seriously injured her good looks. She wondered, also, if Stephen were any more reconciled to his fate. But she did not ask this.
"I suppose Stephen has not come home yet," said her mother at the moment.
"He will not be here at present. He wrote me that Pepperell needed him there."
New England was full of the elation that a youth feels at having given evidence of manly prowess. For the idea of the expedition had been born in the colonial brain, and the enterprise had been carried through by colonial nerve, muscle, and endurance. The very sinews of war had come from New England. Days of thanksgiving were appointed. The soldiers who returned broken down by wounds or illness found welcome and aid, and the families of those who had died in the service were considered by some as opportunities for proving the gratitude they felt for victory. Europe was amazed at the exploit, and England had good reason to remember a conquest which counterbalanced the disasters that she had met with on the Continent, and was the best achievement of the war of 1744. News soon came that Warren had been made Admiral, and their own soldier, Pepperell, created a Baronet.
One perfect afternoon in September Katie set out through the fields to her uncle's house. The walk was not too long when one went across lots. She would perhaps stay to tea, and then the Colonel would send her home. She felt that it was very nice in all the family not to resent her change of mind in regard to Stephen. That day she went on in happy mood.
At last she crossed the little bridge over the creek, and walked slowly up to the house, wondering that she had found neither of her cousins on the river this beautiful day. They would have taken her across the stream, and saved her the distance down the bank to the bridge, and up the long avenue on the other side. But it was cool under the arching trees. She sauntered on. Exercise had brightened her color a little, but it was still as delicate as the petal of a rose; her eyes, too, were full of brightness; her mouth, with its beautiful curves, was bewitching. Altogether, a more graceful figure, in its white dress, and a more perfect face, had seldom made their way through a vista of summer foliage. Was it her fault if too critical an observer missed in the face those shadowy lines that nothing but thought can draw, and in the eyes that peculiar clear depth of shining that comes only when fires of pain have burned into the soul, and purified it, and made it luminous? The shadows of the great trees above her flickered over her face, and did their best to make up the defect, and her long lashes threw a beautiful shade around the bright brown eyes. A young life that suffering has never touched has a wonderful charm in its exemption. It is only when suffering fails in its work that something is missed in the face it has passed over.
As she came near the house she saw that the hall door stood open. She thought that her uncle, or one of the girls, was there. With a smile of greeting she ran the few more steps up the avenue, and standing on the threshold, called merrily:—
"Here am I! Where are you, somebody? Uncle Walter? Faith?" Then she gave a cry of surprise, and, holding out her hand without any embarrassment, said:—
"Stephen! you at home? I hadn't heard of it. When did you come?"
Archdale stood a moment motionless, looking at her fixedly. Then he came forward mechanically and took her hand, still staring at her, in what seemed to her a kind of bewilderment, until she again asked when he had returned, and hoped that he had escaped wounds and illness in the siege.