On the table before him stood a photograph of Hallin, besides a miniature of his mother as a girl.

He had drawn the miniature closer to him, finding sympathy and joy in its youth, in the bright expectancy of the eyes, and so wrote, as it were, having both her and his friend in mind and sight.
To Hallin he had already spoken of Miss Boyce, drawing her in light, casual, and yet sympathetic strokes as the pretty girl in a difficult position whom one would watch with curiosity and some pity.

To-night his letter, which should have discussed a home colonisation scheme of Hallin's, had but one topic, and his pen flew.
"Would you call her beautiful?
I ask myself again and again, trying to put myself behind your eyes.

She has nothing, at any rate, in common with the beauties we have down here, or with those my aunt bade me admire in London last May.

The face has a strong Italian look, but not Italian of to-day.