It was a very shabby valise: it had made many a voyage with its first owner, Captain Carr.

It was a very little valise: it could not have held one gown of any of the modern fashions.
"Dear me," thought Stephen, as he put it into the carriage at Mercy's feet, "what sort of women are these I've taken under my roof! I expect they'll be very unpleasing sights to my eyes.

I did hope she'd be good-looking." How many times in after years did Stephen recall with laughter his first impressions of Mercy Philbrick, and wonder how he could have argued so unhesitatingly that a woman who travelled with only one small valise could not be good-looking.
"Will you come to the house to-morrow ?" he asked.
"Oh, no," replied Mercy, "not for three or four weeks yet.

Our furniture will not be here under that time." "Ah!" said Stephen, "I had not thought of that.

I will call on you at the hotel, then, in a day or two." His adieus were civil, but only civil: that most depressing of all things to a sensitive nature, a kindly indifference, was manifest in every word he said, and in every tone of his voice.
Mercy felt it to the quick; but she was ashamed of herself for the feeling.