longer, had it not almost instantaneously disappeared behind that side of Fred’s face which was farthest from the door. Could the observer’s gaze have penetrated the window shades of Parson Wedgewell’s little parlor, he would have seen a face, not girlish or of regular features, and yet so full of happiness that its effect was that of absolute beauty and the innocence of youth. There were estimable maidens in Barton who, scorning the thought that they could be either jealous or envious, had frequently remarked to their intimates that they could _not_ see what men found in Esther Wedgewell to rave about, and it was well known that the mystery had never been satisfactorily explained to such young ladies as had become the wives of men who had been among Miss Esther’s admirers. It is even to be doubted whether Fred Macdonald himself could have verbally elucidated the matter; there _have_ been such cases where long and joyous lifetimes have not sufficed in which to frame such an explanation, and when the person most blessed has had to journey into another world in search of adequate power of expression. Ordinarily Esther Wedgewell was a young lady the pleasantness of whose face did not hide the fact that its owner’s forehead was too high, the nose too short, the mouth too large, and the complexion too pale for perfect beauty. But somehow young men noticed first of all Miss Esther’s eyes, and these, though neither of heavenly blue, nor violet, nor the brownness of nuts, nor large, nor melting, but only plain gray, were so honest in themselves, and so sympathetic for others, that no one of any character cared to gaze from them to any other of the young woman’s features.