mind. It pleased him to share
it with Esther. As for her, her interest and sympathy knew no bounds.

Pitt, however, while he was talking about his own doings and affairs,
was thinking about Esther. She had changed, somehow. That wonderful
stage of life, 'where the brook and river meet,' she had hardly yet
reached; she was really a little girl still, or certainly ought to be.
What was then this delicate, grave, spiritual look in the face, the
thoughtful intelligence, the refinement of perception, so beyond her
years? No doubt it was due to her living alone, with a somewhat gloomy
father, and being prematurely thrown upon a woman's needs and a woman's
resources. Pitt recognised the fact that his own absence might have had
something to do with it. So long as he had been with her, teaching her
and making a daily breeze in her still life, Esther had been in a
measure drawn out of herself, and kept from brooding. And then, beyond
all, the natural organization of this fine creature was of the rarest;
strong and delicate at once, of large capacities and with
correspondingly large requirements; able for great enjoyment, and open
also to keen suffering. He could see it in every glance of the big,
thoughtful eyes, and every play of the sensitive lips, which had,
however, a trait of steadfastness and grave character along with their
sensitiveness. Pitt looked, and wondered, and admired. This child's
face was taking on already a fascinating power of expression, quite
beyond her years; and that was because the inner life was developing
too soon into thoughtfulness and tenderness, and too early realizing
the meaning of life. Nothing could be more innocent of
self-consciousness than Esther; she did not even know that Pitt was
regarding her with more attention than ordinary, or, if she knew, she
took it as quite natural. He saw that, and so indulged himself. What a
creature this would be, by and by! But in the meantime, what was to
become of her? Without a mother, or a sister, or a brother; all alone;
with nobody near who even knew what she needed. What would become of
her? It was not stagnation that was to be feared, but too vivid life;
not that she would be mentally stunted, but that the growth would be to
exhaustion, or lack the right hardening processes, and so be unhealthy.

The colonel awoke after a while, and welcomed his visitor as truly, if
not as warmly, as Esther had done. He always had liked young Dallas;
and now, after so