It was scarcely two
o'clock, and the sun was shining, and the air clear and happy, as it can
be in October. She was walking rather fast, for fear of dropping into
the brooding vein, when in the little fir plantation a man came forth on
her path, and stood within a few yards in front of her. She was startled
for an instant, because the place was lonely, and Captain Stubbard's
battery crew had established their power to repulse the French by
pounding their fellow-countrymen. But presently she saw that it was Dan
Tugwell, looking as unlike himself as any man can do (without the aid of
an artist), and with some surprise she went on to meet him.
Instead of looking bright, and bold, and fearless, with the freedom of
the sea in his open face, and that of the sun in his clustering curls,
young Daniel appeared careworn and battered, not only unlike his proper
self, but afraid of and ashamed of it. He stood not firmly on the
ground, nor lightly poised like a gallant sailor, but loosely and
clumsily like a ploughman who leaves off at the end of his furrow to
ease the cramp. His hat looked as if he had slept in it, and his eyes as
if he had not slept with them.
Miss Darling had always been fond of Dan, from the days when they played
on the beach together, in childhood's contempt of social law. Her old
nurse used to shut her eyes, after looking round to make sure that there
was "nobody coming to tell on them," while as pretty a pair of children
as the benevolent sea ever prattled with were making mirth and music
and romance along its margin.
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