He
watched them approach with that same quizzical expression, a mixture, if
one gauged his look aright, of pleasure and pride and expectation.
They were young as years go, the pair that walked slowly up to the
cabin. The man was certainly still in his twenties, of medium height,
compactly muscular, a good-looking specimen of pure Anglo-Saxon manhood.
The girl was a flower in perfect bloom, fresh-colored, slender and
pliant as a willow, with all of the willow's grace in every movement.
For all the twenty-odd years between them, and the gulf of sex
differentiation, there was in her glance and bearing much of the
middle-aged man who sat on the porch with a book across his knees and a
clay pipe in his mouth. It did not lie in facial resemblance. It was
more subtle than likeness of feature. Perhaps it was because of their
eyes, alike deep gray, wide and expressive, lifted always to meet
another's in level unembarrassed frankness.
They halted at the edge of the porch. The girl sat down. The young man
nodded to Carr. Though they had but lately been fair in the path of the
thunderstorm they had escaped a wetting. The girl's eyes followed her
father's glance, seemed to read his thought.
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