Her sallow face twitched and she looked wistfully up at him. “It isn't that, Mr. Dan,” she went on slowly, “but I've had trouble myself, God knows, and when I think of that po' proud young lady, an' the way she went, I can't help sayin' what I feel--it won't stay back. So if you'll jest keep on here, an' give up the stage drivin' an' wait twil the old gentleman comes round--Jack an' I'll do our best fur you--we'll do our best, even if it ain't much.” Her lips quivered, and as he watched her it seemed to him that a new meaning passed into her face--something that made her look like Betty and his mother--that made all good women who had loved him look alike. For the moment he forgot her ugliness, and with the beginning of that keener insight into life which would come to him as he touched with humanity, he saw only the dignity with which suffering had endowed this plain and simple woman. The furrows upon her cheeks were no longer mere disfigurements; they raised her from the ordinary level of the ignorant and the ugly into some bond of sympathy with his dead mother. “My dear Mrs. Hicks,” he stammered, abashed and reddening. “Why, I shall take a positive pleasure in driving the stage, I assure you.” He crossed to the mirror and carefully brushed a stray lock of hair into place; then he took up his hat and gloves and turned toward the door. “I think it is waiting for me now,” he added lightly; “a pleasant evening to you.” But she stood straight before him and as he met her eyes his affected jauntiness dropped from him. With a boyish awkwardness he took her hand and held it for an instant as he looked at her. “My dear madam, you are a good woman,” he said, and went whistling down to take the stage. Upon the porch he found Jack Hicks seated between a stout gentleman and a thin lady, who were to be the passengers to Hopeville; and as Dan appeared the innkeeper started to his feet and swung open the door of the coach for the thin lady to pass inside. “You'll find it a pleasant ride, mum,” he heartily assured her. “I've often taken it myself an', rain or shine, thar's not a prettier road in all Virginny,” then he moved humbly back as Dan, carelessly drawing on his gloves, came down the steps. “I hope we haven't hurried you, suh,” he stammered. “Not a bit--not a bit,” returned Dan, affably, slipping on his overcoat, which Big Abel had run up to hold for him. “You gwine git right soakin' wet, Marse Dan,” said Big Abel, anxiously. “Oh, I'll not melt,” responded Dan, and bowing to the thin lady he stepped upon the wheel and mounted lightly to the box. “There's no end to this eternal drizzle,” he called down, as he tucked the waterproof robe about him and took up the reins. Then, with a merry crack of the whip, the stage rolled through the gate and on its way. As it turned into the road, a man on horseback came galloping from the direction of the town, and when he neared the tavern he stood up in his stirrups and shouted his piece of news.