out her; her
slenderness; the joyful way she swung when she walked; even the cut of
her clothes spelled youth. And she was undeniably pretty, with eyes
like bits of blue sky and quantities of silky, corn-colored hair. Her
mouth was almost too large, but even that could not spoil the essential
prettiness of her. She was laughing at her escort, with glowing
upturned face, as they swept past Elinor and Ross in their quiet
corner, and her laugh displayed an unusually straight row of the
whitest teeth imaginable.

"Was she?" Ross seemed most indifferent. "I didn't notice her. I never
look at other women when you're around, my dear."

Elinor laughed. "You goose!" But 'way deep down in her heart she
couldn't help feeling a bit flattered.

It was just past tea-time on the big home-coming liner, and it might
seem as if all of its voyagers were taking an afternoon stroll. There
was only one more day--to-morrow--left of the voyage before Boston
Harbor, and everyone was full of the repressed excitement and
restlessness of getting home. The decks were alive with couples and
single folk, passing and repassing in both directions; some very
briskly in real constitutionals, and some much more leisurely as though
merely for the occupation of movement.

But Ross felt very lazy. He had buried himself deep in his
steamer-chair and refused to budge an inch when Elinor had suggested
that they might join that strolling throng.

"I'm a married man now," he said, "and I don't have to worry about
exercising to keep my figure. Besides, I had much rather sit here in
the corner and hold your hand under the rug."

So Elinor had humored him about the sitting still, and arranged a fat
pillow under his head the way he liked it best; but she had no
intention of permitting that even so newly married a couple as
themselves should be seen holding hands in broad daylight on a crowded
deck. Whereat, Ross pretended to sulk; he tilted his cap far down over
his eyes; thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets and sprawled
full-length in his chair. Though instead of conveying to the passers-by
any idea of displeasure, with anything or anybody, his attitude only
succeeded in picturing lazy comfort.

Arethusa would hardly have known this Ross Worthington reclining so
easefully in the steamer-chair as the original of her beloved
photograph. She might have recognized the eyes, keen and bright in
their glance as ever, and with the same debonair smiling; but