"
Van Berg did not sketch Ida Mayhew's face that afternoon. On the
contrary, he resolutely sought to banish her image from his mind.
When last he saw that face, it seemed made of Parian marble. Now
it rose before him so blackened and besmirched that he thought of
it only with anger and disgust.
Ida kept herself so secluded in the afternoon that Stanton could
not find her, but this very seclusion, which the poor girl sought
in order to hide her wounds, only increased his own and Mrs. Mayhew's
fears deepened their suspicions.
She was a little late in appearing at the super-table, for her
return from the wanderings of the afternoon had required more time
than she supposed. She was very weary; moreover, the hours spent
in solitude with nature had quieted her overstrung nerves. The
sun had shone upon her, though the world seemed to frown. Flowers
had looked shyly and sweetly into her face as if they saw nothing
there to criticise. She had plucked a few and fastened them into
her breast-pin, and their faint perfume was like a low, soothing
voice. She was in a softened and receptive mood, and a kind word,
even a kind glance, might have tuned the scale in favor of better
thoughts and better living.
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