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Her face was pale. Her eyes were dull, and the lids hung droopingly,
weighed down by twenty-four hours of wakefulness by the bedside of her
sick teacher. The faint blue crescents beneath--those strange shadows
of the grave, which sometimes seem the deepest when the eyes above are
giving the brightest light--imparted a frail, delicate beauty to her
countenance. They were the last master-touches of Nature in working out
that portraiture of weaned and sleepy loveliness.
As she put her foot in the room, Mr. Minford and his guest telegraphed a
truce with their eyes, and assumed a cheerful look.
Little Pet timidly ran to her father, and kissed him, and then shook
hands with Marcus. He observed a shrinking in her touch. She averted
her eyes.
"Your clothes are damp, and your feet wet, my darling," said the father,
"Are they?" answered Pet, looking down at her saturated garments and
glistening shoes. "I had not noticed them. Oh! I am so happy that she is
well now. The doctor called at the house just before I left, and said
she was out of all danger.


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