Mature, thin, precise,--not pretty enough to have excited Homeric feuds, nor yet so plain as to preclude certain soothing graces,--she was the widow of a poor Congregational minister, and had been expressly imported from San Francisco to squarely mark the issue between the regenerate and unregenerate life.

Low-voiced, gentlewomanly, with the pallor of ill-health perhaps unduly accented by her mourning, which was still cut modishly enough to show off her spare but good figure, she was supposed to represent the model of pious, scholastic refinement.

The Opposition--sullen in ditches and at the doors of saloons, or in the fields truculent as their own cattle--nevertheless had lowered their crests and buttoned their coats over their revolutionary red shirts when SHE went by.
As she was stepping from the threshold, she was suddenly confronted by a brisk business-looking man, who was about to enter.

"Just in time to catch you, Mrs.Martin," he said hurriedly; then, quickly correcting his manifest familiarity, he added: "I mean, I took the liberty of running in here on my way to the stage office.

That matter you spoke of is all arranged.