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The outmoded cabs were worn and dirty the cracked patent leather wrinkled like an old man's face, the cushions faded to a brownish lavender; the very horses were ancient and weary, and so were the white-haired men who sat aloft, cracking their whips with a grotesque affectation of gallantry. A relic of vanished gaiety!
And before him sat the lady who belonged in the room. Cool and sweet and unchangeable she was. She offered no surprises. If one should pass his life with her, though she might grow white-haired and wrinkled, he would never perceive the change. Three years he had been away from her, and she was still waiting for him as established and constant as the house itself.
He is dressed in a purple robe, over which is a mantle of rich crimson. Beside him, in red and olive-green, is the girlish-looking youth, Peter Rendl, who takes the part of Saint John. Behind him follow his disciples, each with the pilgrim's staff. Two of these are more conspicuous than the others. One is a white-haired, eager old man, wearing a mantle of olive-green.
They could scarcely be persuaded that it was their son and brother come back to them, and he had to tell them of some things that no one else could know before they would believe him. His old, white-haired mother whom he remembered in her youth with a "head as black as a crow," was the first to take him in her arms, and she said, as she wept over him, "How you have grown!
R. C. Potter, and her object in visiting Atkinson, was to improve her health. She was accompanied by her father, Mr. C. B. Rowell, a fine looking, white-haired old gentleman, but he remained only long enough to see her comfortably settled, and then returned to their home in Jacksonville, Florida, as his business required his immediate presence there. Mrs.
The head-mistress, Mrs Macintyre, came out with tears in her eyes to tell him what had occurred in the watches of the night. The Duke, a white-haired old man, looked very solemn as he listened. His heart was sick within him. 'Now, listen, he said when he could find his voice. 'Is there danger of her life? 'We don't know; we are not sure, said Mrs Macintyre.
"Tia Juana," he said, "I would like to talk with you a while." An old, old Mexican woman, white-haired and wonderfully wrinkled, rose from a stool. "Sit down," said Ranse, removing his hat and taking the one chair in the jacal. "Who am I, Tia Juana?" he asked, speaking Spanish. "Don Ransom, our good friend and employer. Why do you ask?" answered the old woman wonderingly.
As he did so he saw Miss Crawford was coming toward them through the yard from the corner of the house. A middle-aged man, heavy and broad-shouldered and white-haired, was with her. He turned to meet her. "Mr. Conniston," she was saying, "this is my father. And, papa, this is Mr. Hapgood." Mr.
Children played, young girls wrote letters to their lovers; mothers busily worked sewing-machines, but saw everything that passed on the water; fathers read newspapers, and white-haired old grandpapas nodded over long-stemmed pipes.
The reading finished, we closed our books, and the Professor, a kindly, white-haired old gentleman, suggested our giving in our own words an account of what we had just read. "Tell me," said the Professor, encouragingly, "what it is all about."
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