A fair broad forehead lay above well-arched brows; the eyes below were large and shrewdly observant, with laughter and kindness blent in their dark depths.

The cheeks were warm with health; the lips and chin were strong, yet marked with refinement; they told of independence, of fervid instincts; perhaps of a temper a little apt to be impatient.

It was not an imaginative countenance, yet alive with thought and feeling--all, one felt, ready at the moment's need--the kind of face which becomes the light and joy of home, the bliss of children, the unfailing support of a man's courage.

Her hair was cut short and crisped itself above her neck; her hat of black straw and dark dress were those of a work-girl--poor, yet, in their lack of adornment, suiting well with the active, helpful impression which her look produced.
'Here's Mary an' Mr.Hackroyd fallin' out again, Lydia,' said Mrs.
Bower.
'What about now ?' Lydia asked, coming in and seating herself.

Her eyes passed quickly over Ackroyd's face and rested on that of the old man with much kindness.
'Oh, the hold talk--about religion.' 'I think it 'ud be better if they left that alone,' she replied, glancing at Mary.
'You're right, Miss Trent,' said Luke.