She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. "I didn't carry you off from old Wood to kill you, but to wed you. His vision was becoming accustomed to the faint light now and her features were clearer. Run along now; but return in half an hour. My father thought the latter.
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