Beat! beat! oh, heart of John, if there is aught in womanhood to make you throb; if there is aught in infinite grace and winsomeness; if there is aught in perfect harmony of color and form and movement; if there is aught of beauty, in God's power to create that can set you pulsing, beat! for the fairest creature of His hand is hastening to greet you.

The wind had dishevelled her hair and it was blowing in fluffy curls of golden red about her face.

Her cheeks were slightly flushed with joy and exercise, her red lips were parted, and her eyes--but I am wasting words.

As for John's heart it almost smothered him with its beating.

He had never before supposed that he could experience such violent throbbing within his breast and live.