Her pretty face was quite pale that morning, and her eyes looked big.

She moved hesitatingly, or with sharp little runs of decision.

She went often to the window and stared down the road--still looking for her father; for hope dies hard in youth, and she had words of triumph at the sight of him all ready upon her tongue.

Her mother's strange demeanor frightened her, and made her almost angry.

She was too young to grasp any but the more familiar phases of grief, and revelations of character were to her revolutions.
She beckoned her brother out of the room the first chance she got, and questioned him.
"What ails mother ?" she whispered, out in the woodshed, holding to the edge of his jacket and looking at him with piteous, scared eyes.
Jerome stood with his shoulders back, and seemed to look down at her from his superior height of courageous spirit, though she was as tall as he.
"She's come to herself," said Jerome.
"She wasn't ever like this before." "Yes, she was--inside.