As a general rule, Rathburn cared little what these humble, illiterate mountaineers said or how they esteemed him. But despite his appreciation of its infinitesimal consequence he was at once surprised, and a trifle offended by the ridicule. He had turned to retort, when he saw Marcella’s face with the reflection of his own sentiment upon it. Those, crystal-clear eyes of hers were widely opened; he noted the upward sweep of the thick, fine lashes; and why, since her flush was so infrequent, why did it wear that exquisite hue, deepening in the cheek, and merging by indistinguishable degrees, like the fine sorceries of sunset, into the warm whiteness of her brow, and chin, and throat? Her lips were more deeply red still,—did ever a sculptor chisel a mouth like that, where all sweet graces curved sedately? It trembled slightly, and the sight of the quiver roused in him a new lease of gratitude for her timely word; even now he could not measure the risk she ran in saying it. He would not be laughed from his loyalty to the messenger who had brought him safety, even rescued his life, perhaps. “_May_ have been a woman,” he admitted; “she _looked_ like an angel.” “A triflin’ chit, I’ll be bound,” Mrs. Strobe declared. “Hain’t she got no better work ter do ’n ter keep her eye on the young men, an’ her ear open ter all the talk ’bout’n em?” She spoke all unaware that the belittled “n’angel” was one of her own fireside, or that any words of hers were serving to deepen the flush on Marcella’s cheek.