"She is getting to look just like her mother. I haven't seen David so
affected since his wife died as he was when that picture came
yesterday."
Darrell bowed silently, in token that he understood.
"She was a lovely woman, but she was very different from any of our
folks," she added, with a sigh, "and I guess Katherine is going to be
just like her."
"When is Miss Underwood expected home?" Darrell inquired.
"About the last of June," was the reply.
Long after the sun had set Darrell paced up and down the veranda,
pausing at intervals to gaze with unseeing eyes out over the peaceful
scene below him, his only companions his own troubled thoughts. The
young moon was shining, and in its pale radiance his set face gleamed
white like marble.
Like, and yet unlike, it was to the face of the sleeper journeying
westward on that summer afternoon eight months before. Experience, the
mighty sculptor, was doing his work, and doing it well; only a few lines
as yet, here and there, and the face was already stronger, finer. But it
was the face of one hardened by his own sufferings, not softened by the
sufferings of others. The sculptor's work was as yet only begun.
_Chapter X_