een hers, and
she had flashed by you in the open some bright morning mounted on her
own black mare, face aglow, eyes like stars, her wonderful hair waving
in the wind, you would have stood stock-still in admiration, fear
gripping your throat, a prayer in your heart for the safe home-coming of
one so fearless and so beautiful.

There was, too, about her a certain gentleness, a certain disposition
to be kind, even when her inherent coquetry--natural in the Southern
girl--led her into deep waters; a certain tenderness that made friends
of even unhappy suitors (and I heard that she could not count them on
her fingers) who had asked for more than she could give--a tenderness
which healed the wound and made lovers of them all for life.

And then her Southern speech, indescribable and impossible in cold type.
The softening of the consonants, the slipping away of the terminals, the
slurring of vowels, and all in that low, musical voice born out side of
the roar and crash of city streets and crowded drawing-rooms with each
tongue fighting for mastery.

All this Jack had taken in, besides a thousand other charms visible only
to the young enthusiast, before he had been two minutes in her presence.
As to her voice, he knew she was one of his own people when she had
finished pronouncing his name. Somebody worthwhile had crossed his path
at last!

And with this there had followed, even as he talked to her, the usual
comparisons made by all young fellows when the girl they don't like is
placed side by side with the girl they do. Miss MacFarlane was tall
and Corinne was short; Miss MacFarlane was dark, and he adored dark,
handsome people--and Corinne was light; Miss MacFarlane's voice was low
and soft, her movements slow and graceful, her speech gentle--as if she
were afraid she might hurt someone inadvertently; her hair and dress
were simple to severity. While Corinne--well, in every one of these
details Corinne represented the exact opposite. It was the blood! Yes,
that was it--it was her blood! Who was she, and where did she come from?
Would Corinne like her? What impression would this high bred Southern
beauty make upon the pert Miss Wren, whose little nose had gone down a
point or two when her mother had discovered, much to her joy, the week
before, that it was the REAL Miss Grayson and not an imitation Miss
Grayson who had been good enough to invite her daughter and any of her
daughter's friends to tea; and it had fallen anot