When he was concentrating, deep shadows formed under his gray eyes. Bordered by fine timber, the road occasionally offered glimpses of a lovely valley, until a wider opening gave a full view of a delightful and varied prospect. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. Honestly, I never did.
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