She was not a nervous woman; but to-night her mood demanded constant
action. Moreover, it was only an hour and a quarter before the train was
due. If she were not watchful, the carriage might come without her
knowing it, and the occupants miss half their welcome home.
Framed in the soft, white draperies, her face made an attractive picture
for the passer-by. Mrs. McAlister's girlhood had passed; a certain
girlishness, however, would never pass, and her clear blue eyes had all
the life and fire they had shown when, as Bess Holden she had been the
leader in most of the pranks of her class at Vassar. The brown hair was
still unmarked by grey threads and the complexion was still fresh and
rosy, while in expression the face in the window below was far younger
than the one peering out from the upper room, just above it.
Allyn McAlister was a graft on the family stock, in temperament, at
least. Born into a genial, jovial, healthy family, his was the only moody
nature there. His brother and sisters might be mischievous or even
fractious; but they were never prone to have black half-hours. It was
reserved for the youngest one of them all, Allyn McAlister, aged fifteen,
to spell his moods with a capital M. His father was wont to say that
Allyn was a mixture of two people, of two nameless, far-off ancestors.
For days at a time, he was a merry, happy-go-lucky boy.
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