eadful time
covering it up; it's the dearest thing in life to me, but it's an awful
care."

At this moment the thought gradually permeated Mr. Jeremiah Cobb's
slow-moving mind that the bird perched by his side was a bird of very
different feather from those to which he was accustomed in his daily
drives. He put the whip back in its socket, took his foot from the
dashboard, pushed his hat back, blew his quid of tobacco into the road,
and having thus cleared his mental decks for action, he took his first
good look at the passenger, a look which she met with a grave,
childlike stare of friendly curiosity.

The buff calico was faded, but scrupulously clean, and starched within
an inch of its life. From the little standing ruffle at the neck the
child's slender throat rose very brown and thin, and the head looked
small to bear the weight of dark hair that hung in a thick braid to her
waist. She wore an odd little vizored cap of white leghorn, which may
either have been the latest thing in children's hats, or some bit of
ancient finery furbished up for the occasion. It was trimmed with a
twist of buff ribbon and a cluster of black and orange porcupine
quills, which hung or bristled stiffly over one ear, giving her the
quaintest and most unusual appearance. Her face was without color and
sharp in outline. As to features, she must have had the usual number,
though Mr. Cobb's attention never proceeded so far as nose, forehead,
or chin, being caught on the way and held fast by the eyes. Rebecca's
eyes were like faith,--"the substance of things hoped for, the evidence
of things not seen." Under her delicately etched brows they glowed like
two stars, their dancing lights half hidden in lustrous darkness. Their
glance was eager and full of interest, yet never satisfied; their
steadfast gaze was brilliant and mysterious, and had the effect of
looking directly through the obvious to something beyond, in the
object, in the landscape, in you. They had never been accounted for,
Rebecca's eyes. The school teacher and the minister at Temperance had
tried and failed; the young artist who came for the summer to sketch
the red barn, the ruined mill, and the bridge ended by giving up all
these local beauties and devoting herself to the face of a child,--a
small, plain face illuminated by a pair of eyes carrying such messages,
such suggestions, such hints of sleeping power and insight, that one
never tired of looking into their shining depths