not grief had changed them, but life had. The
brow had all its fine chiselling and high purity of
expression; but now there sat there a hopelessness,
or rather a want of hopefulness, that a child’s
face never knows. The mouth was sweet and pliable
as ever, but now often patience and endurance did
not quit their seat upon the lip even when it smiled.
The eye with all its old clearness and truthfulness
had a shade upon it that nine years ago only fell
at the bidding of sorrow; and in every line of the
face there was a quiet gravity that went to the heart
of the person who was studying it. Whatever causes
had been at work he was very sure had done no harm
to the character; its old simplicity had suffered
no change, as every look and movement proved; the
very unstudied careless position of the fingers over
the eyes shewed that the thoughts had nothing to do
there.
On one half of his doubt Mr. Carleton’s mind
was entirely made up;—but education? the
training and storing of the mind?—how had
that fared? He would know!—
Perhaps he would have made some attempt that very
evening towards satisfying himself; but noticing that
in coming out Thorn permitted the Evelyns to pass
him and attached himself determinately to Fleda, he
drew back, and resolved to make his observations indirectly
and on more than one point before he should seem to
make them at all.
Hark! I hear the sound of coaches,
The hour of attack approaches.
Gay.
Mrs. Pritchard had arrayed Fleda in the white muslin,
with an amount of satisfaction and admiration that
all the lines of her face were insufficient to express.
“Now,” she said, “you must just
run down and let the doctor see you—afore
you take the shine off—or he won’t
be able to look at anything else when you get to the
place.”
“That would be unfortunate!” said Fleda,
and she ran down laughing into the room where the
doctor was waiting for her; but her astonished eyes
encountering the figure of Dr. Quackenboss she stopped
short, with an air that no woman of the world could
have bettered. The physician of Queechy on his
part was at least equally taken aback.
“Dr. Quackenboss!” said Fleda.
“I—I was going to say, Miss Ringgan!”
said the doctor with a most unaffected obeisance,—“but—a—I
am afraid, sir, it is a deceptive influence!”
“I hope not,” said Dr. Gregory smiling,
one corner of his mouth for his guest and the other
for his niece. “Real enough to do real execution,
or I am mistaken, sir.”
“Upon my word, sir,” said Dr. Quackenboss
bowing again,—“I hope—a—Miss
Ringgan!—will remember the acts of her executive
power at home, and return in time to prevent an unfortunate
termination!”
Dr. Gregory laughed heartily now, while Fleda’s
cheeks relieved her dress to admiration.
“Who will complain of her if she don’t?”
said the doctor. “Who will complain of
her if she don’t?”
