again and again, was like a flame through her; and she wanted to see his face more distinctly in her mind, ruddy with the sun, and his golden-brown eyes, kind and careless, strained now with a natural fear, the fine nose tanned hard by the sun, the mouth that could not help smiling at her. And it went through her with pride, to think of his figure, a straight, fine jet of life.
“He is a handsome lad,” said she to Miss Mary, as if he had not been a year older than herself. Underneath was the deeper dread, almost hatred, of the inhuman being of Mr. Massy. She felt she must protect herself and Alfred from him.
“When I felt Mr. Massy there,” she said, “I almost hated him. What right had he to be there!”
“Surely he has all right,” said Miss Mary after a pause. “He is really a Christian.”
“He seems to me nearly an imbecile,” said Miss Louisa.
Miss Mary, quiet and beautiful, was silent for a moment:
“Oh, no,” she said. “Not imbecile——”
“Well then—he reminds me of a six months’ child—or a five months’ child—as if he didn’t have time to get developed enough before he was born.”
“Yes,” said Miss Mary, slowly. “There is something lacking. But there is something wonderful in him: and he is really good——”
“Yes,” said Miss Louisa, “it doesn’t seem right that he should be. What right has that to be called goodness!”
“But it is goodness,” persisted Mary. Then
