"You are very kind. No. I do not wish to lie down. I
haven't felt so thoroughly awake in--" she drew a pink cluster of
oleander against her cheek and thought a moment--"in several years."
There was a new look about her certainly.
"Nervous excitement," her mother-in-law replied. "You're not like
yourself at all to-night. You'll certainly be ill to-morrow!"
Viva turned at this and again astonished the old lady by serenely
kissing her. "Not at all!" she said gaily. "I'm going to be well
to-morrow. You will see!"
She went to her room, drew a chair to the wide west window with the far
off view and sat herself down to think. Diantha's assured poise, her
clear reasoning, her courage, her common sense; and something of
tenderness and consecration she discerned also, had touched deep chords
in this woman's nature. It was like the sound of far doors opening,
windows thrown up, the jingle of bridles and clatter of hoofs, keen
bugle notes. A sense of hope, of power, of new enthusiasm, rose in her.
Orchardina Society, eagerly observing "young Mrs. Weatherstone" from her
first appearance, had always classified her as "delicate." Beside the
firm features and high color of the matron-in-office, this pale quiet
slender woman looked like a meek and transient visitor. But her white
forehead was broad under its soft-hanging eaves of hair, and her chin,
though lacking in prognathous prominence or bull-dog breadth, had a
certain depth which gave hope to the physiognomist.
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