ried had touched her not at all to her
disadvantage, rather to her profit. She looked not an hour older;
motherhood had only added to her charm, lending it a delightful gravity.
The prairie life had given a shining quality to her handsomeness, an air
of depth and firmness, an exquisite health and clearness to the colour
in her cheeks. Her step was as light as Nancy's, elastic and buoyant--a
gliding motion which gave a sinuous grace to the movements of her
body. There had also come into her eyes a vigilance such as deaf people
possess, a sensitive observation imparting a deeper intelligence to the
face.

Here was the only change by which you could guess the story of her life.
Her eyes were like the ears of an anxious mother who can never sleep
till every child is abed; whose sense is quick to hear the faintest
footstep without or within; and who, as years go on, and her children
grow older and older, must still lie awake hearkening for the late
footstep on the stair. In Sally's eyes was the story of the past three
years: of love and temptation and struggle, of watchfulness and yearning
and anxiety, of determination and an inviolable hope. Her eyes had a
deeper look than that in Jim's. Now, as she gazed at him, the maternal
spirit rose up from the great well of protectiveness in her and engulfed
both husband and child. There was always something of the maternal in
her eyes when she looked at Jim. He did not see it--he saw only the
wonderful blue, and the humour which had helped him over such difficult
places these past three years. In steadying and strengthening Jim's
will, in developing him from his Southern indolence into Northern
industry and sense of responsibility, John Appleton's warnings had
rung in Sally's ears, and Freddy Hartzman's forceful and high-minded
personality had passed before her eyes with an appeal powerful and
stimulating; but always she came to the same upland of serene faith and
white-hearted resolve; and Jim became dearer and dearer.

The baby had done much to brace her faith in the future and comfort her
anxious present. The child had intelligence of a rare order. She would
lie by the half-hour on the floor, turning over the leaves of a book
without pictures, and, before she could speak, would read from the pages
in a language all her own. She made a fairy world for herself, peopled
by characters to whom she gave names, to whom she assigned curious
attributes and qualities. They were as real to