By bearing away to the left into another path, and making a detour, she
could reach the Meeting-house through a narrow lane leading past a now
disused mill and a small, strong stream flowing from the hill above.
As she came down the hill, other eyes than Soolsby's watched her. From
his laboratory--the laboratory in which his father had worked, in which
he had lost his life--Eglington had seen the trim, graceful figure. He
watched it till it moved into the wooded path. Then he left his garden,
and, moving across a field, came into the path ahead of her. Walking
swiftly, he reached the old mill, and waited.
She came slowly, now and again stooping to pick a flower and place it in
her belt. Her bonnet was slung on her arm, her hair had broken a little
loose and made a sort of hood round the face, so still, so composed, into
which the light of steady, soft, apprehending eyes threw a gentle
radiance. It was a face to haunt a man when the storm of life was round
him. It had, too, a courage which might easily become a delicate
stubbornness, a sense of duty which might become sternness, if roused by
a sense of wrong to herself or others.
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