Chapter III

Thurly Macdonald’s mother was small and frail and gentle. Her sweet old face had grown lovely with age, like a well bred rose, with nevertheless a ruggedness about it that spoke of autumn frosts, and weathered winds, and a strong green vital stem. She stood and faced this exotic girl that her son had suddenly thrust upon her, and her keen, farseeing eyes read much in the one glance with which she swept her very soul, before she set to work to care for her. The glance gave due tribute to the visitor’s loveliness, to…