"Can she know how that scoundrel is looking at her? If I believed
it I'd leave her marvellous features to their fate," was the thought
that passed through his mind.
In his perturbation he walked down the long piazza. Happening to
glance into one of the small private parlors, he witnessed a scene
that made a very sharp contrast with the one he had just left.
An old white-haired, white-bearded man, a well-known guest of the
house, reclined in an easy-chair with an expression of real enjoyment
on his face. His aged wife sat near, knitting away as tranquilly
as if at home, while under the gas-jet was Miss Burton, reading a
newspaper, with two or three others upon her lap. She had evidently
found the old gentleman trying to glean, with his feeble sight,
the evening journals that had been brought from the city, and
was lending him her young eyes and mellow voice for an hour. The
picture struck him so pleasantly that he took out his notebook and
indicated the fortunate grouping within, for a future sketch.
"It would make some difference in a man's future," he muttered,
"whether this maiden or the one in yonder roue's embrace were
installed as the mistress of his home.
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