Both children were more or less restless; but their sister was not restless, she sat quite still.

The attitude of her tall figure had the composure and strength in it which do not belong to first youth.

Hers was a fine face; it might even be called beautiful; but no one now would call it pretty--the skin was too colourless, the expression too earnest.
Her eyes took on the look that tells of inward, rather than outward, vision.

Her thoughts were such as she would not have told to any one, but not because of evil in them.
This was the lady to whom Robert Trenholme, the master of the college at Chellaston, had written his letter; and she was thinking of that letter now, and of him, pondering much that, by some phantasy of dreams, she should have been suddenly reminded of him by the voice of the man who had passed through the car with the milk.
Her mind flitted lightly to the past; to a season she had once spent in a fashionable part of London, and to her acquaintance with the young curate, who was receiving some patronage from the family with whom she was visiting.

She had been a beauty then; every one danced to the tune she piped, and this curate--a mere fledgeling--had danced also.