The Green Bough

of all to define. So much less of the emotions of hopefulness, of curiosity, or even of childish

beginning of this history, and in fact were the fi

es how short is the span of time in which a woman can control her destiny. She sees in the eyes of others that life is slipping by her; she discovers how those who were child

liberation. For here often she will choose her direction in the full consciousness of thought. No longer dare she leave her destiny to the hazard of chance. It has become, not the Romance that will ha

no such consciousness of the need of deliberation had entered the mind of Mary Throgmorton. Perhaps it was because there were no younger creatures about her, growing up t

ing the mere material facts of so-called interest in her ears. It was all too deafening and astounding to be more than a passing wonder in her mind. She would return to Bridnorth with its thunder roaring in her ears, glad of the quiet str

gray eyes at the vision the reflecting mirror presented to her. Scarcely had she noticed her growth into womanhood for, as has been said, her beauty was not that of the flesh that is pink and whi

ne day will alter the force-made laws for a world built nearer to the purpose of their being; these thousand women to

e in the rigid medium of words. Truly enough, if deeply engaged in one of the many books she read, there were times and often when, from those

o the belief that Mary cared less than them all what interest th

when they had described a young man descendi

k at her. But apparently there was no intention to deceive. If the book was really engrossing, she would return to its pages no sooner than the remark was made, as

nterest in the midst of more important occupations--for Jane would say, "Mary, you can't just stare"--it was with n

eathered moors would, with intention, seat herself in a spot where the Abbotscombe coach could be seen winding its way down the hill into Bridnorth. It was one spot alone from which t

of vision to its determined destination; the interest of that floating obj

e attraction had no name in her mind. No more did she do than sit and watch its passage, dimly conscious that that little moving speck upon the r

was there in the line of her eyes, it had seemed that something, havi

vividly sometimes, when it had gone, it appeared to have left her behind.

d of road had remained a mystery. Companions and acquaintances it had brought and often; women with whom

it should. There was no such readiness to yield in her as there was in Fanny; no undisguise

ch allowed no familiarity of approach. Only with his heart could a ma

was that she had none of the superficial allurements of her sex. Strength was the beauty of her. It was a common attitude of hers to stand with legs apart set firmly on her feet as s

d quality of her beauty they saw her remotely and only in the distances in which she placed herself. None had come close enough to observe that gentle smile the sculptor had curved about her lips, the deep and tender softness of her eyes.

It was not as with Fanny that she thought of it as a vehicle of her Destiny, but that, as she sat th

come with a message under its wing. Detaching that messa

y there beyond the hill--and life is pain as well as joy and life is s

me the coach passed by when she was in the house the horses' hoofs on th