Excerpt: like some autumn leaf here and there just yellowing into gold, girls

whose deep grey eyes can grow tender as a dove's, or flash like the

stirred waters of a northern sea, and whose bloom can bear comparison

with the wilding rose. But few can show a face like that which upon

this day first dawned on Geoffrey Bingham to his sorrow and his hope.

It was strong and pure and sweet as the keen sea breath, and looking

on it one must know that beneath this fair cloak lay a wit as fair.

And yet it was all womanly; here was not the hard sexless stamp of the

"cultured" female. She who owned it was capable of many things. She

could love and she could suffer, and if need be, she could dare or

die. It was to be read upon that lovely brow and face, and in the

depths of those grey eyes--that is, by those to whom the book of

character is open, and who wish to study it.

But Beatrice was not thinking of her loveliness as she gazed into the

water. She knew that she was beautiful of course; her beauty was too

obvious to be over