Her countenance was a pure specimen of Gothic architecture; a massive pompadour reared itself above two Gothic eyebrows which flanked a nose of unquestioned Gothic tendencies.

Her mouth, with its drooping corners, completed the series of arches, and the whole expression was one of aspiring melancholy and injured majesty.
Kneeling at her side, reassuring her and wiping the water from her hands, was Ruth Nelson.
"God send you ain't hurt, ma'am!" cried Sandy, arriving breathless.
The girl looked up and shook her head in smiling protest, but the Gothic lady promptly suffered a relapse.
"I am--I know I am! Just look at my dress covered with mud, and my glove is split.

Get my smelling-salts, Ruth!" Ruth, upon whom the lady was leaning, turned to Sandy.
"Will you hand it to me?
It is in the little bag there on the seat." Sandy rushed to do her bidding.

He was rather hazy as to the object of his search; but when his fingers touched a round, soft ball he drew it forth and hastily presented it to the lady's Roman nose.
She, with closed eyes, was taking deep whiffs when a laugh startled her.
"Oh, Aunt Clara, it's your powder-puff!" cried Ruth, unable to restrain her mirth.
Mrs.Nelson rose with as much dignity as her draggled condition would permit.

"You'd better get me home," she said solemnly.