The dainty lace cap she wore had tiny bows of violet showing among the lace, and it someway had the effect of making her appear more youthful instead of adding matronliness. The lawn she wore had violet lines through it, and the flowing sleeves had undersleeves of sheer white gathered at the wrist. The wide lace collar circled a throat scarcely less white, and altogether made a picture worth study, though Matthew Loring's view of it was rather blurred because of the failure of vision which he denied whenever opportunity offered; next to paralysis there was nothing he dreaded so much as blindness, and even to Delaven he denied--uselessly--any tendency in that direction. "Hum!" he grunted, at last, with a cynical smile; "if Gid Clarkson keeps up his habit of visiting you regularly, as he has done for the past ten years, you ought to know him a mile away by this time." "Oh!"--Mrs. McVeigh was refastening her brooch before the mirror, "not ten years, quite." "Well, long enough to be refused three times to my certain knowledge; why, he doesn't deny it--proud to let the country know his devotion to the most charming of her sex," and he gave an ironical little nod for which she exchanged one of her sweetest smiles. "Glad you looked at me when you said that," she remarked, lightly; "and we do depend on Judge Clarkson so much these days I don't know what I ever would do if his devotion dwindled in the least. But I fancy his visit this morning is on your account instead of mine." At that moment the white hat of Clarkson could be seen above the veranda railing, and Mrs. McVeigh threw open the glass doors as he appeared at the top of the steps with an immense boquet held with especial care--the Judge's one hobby in the realm of earth-grown things was flowers. He bowed when he caught sight of the mistress of the Terrace, who bestowed on him a quaint courtesy such as the good nuns of Orleans taught their pupils thirty years before, she also extended her hand, which he kissed--an addition to fine manners the nuns had omitted--probably they knew how superfluous such training would be, all Southern girls being possessed of that knowledge by right of birth. "Good morning, Judge." "Mistress McVeigh!" Loring uttered an inarticulate exclamation which was first cousin to a grunt, as the Judge's tone reached his ear, and the profound bow was robbed of its full value by the Judge straightening, and glancing sideways. "My delight, Madame, at being invited over this morning is only to be expressed in the silent language of the blossoms I bring. You will honor me by accepting them?" "With very great pleasure, Judge; here is Mr. Loring."