It leads from the cross-roads!" Faith Claridge, who had listened to David's speech, her heart panting, her clear grey eyes--she had her mother's eyes--fixed benignly on him, turned to the quarter whence the voice came.

Seeing who it was--a widow who, with no demureness, had tried without avail to bring Luke Claridge to her--her lips pressed together in a bitter smile, and she said to her nephew clearly: "Patience Spielman hath little hope of thee, David.

Hope hath died in her." A faint, prim smile passed across the faces of all present, for all knew Faith's allusion, and it relieved the tension of the past half-hour.
From the first moment David began to speak he had commanded his hearers.
His voice was low and even; but it had also a power which, when put to sudden quiet use, compelled the hearer to an almost breathless silence, not so much to the meaning of the words, but to the tone itself, to the man behind it.

His personal force was remarkable.

Quiet and pale ordinarily, his clear russet-brown hair falling in a wave over his forehead, when roused, he seemed like some delicate engine made to do great labours.