She had a horrible glimpse of the once nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared, white, but triumphant. So that as she saw him she remarked to herself very faintly but definitely, “Oh, golly!” and set up a campaign of avoidance that Mr. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he had greeted her, entering the little private parlour where, Martha being at prayer in their room, she sat alone, reading over and over the letter Mother Abbess had given her and revolving plans in her head. “Serves you right if I’d cracked your skull. The Closing Scene. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. “And we will sail that splendor wide, From day to day together, From isle to isle of happiness Through year’s of God’s own weather. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet. What do you say to Brighton——” Anna looked at him quietly—and he never finished his sentence. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision.
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