It would be a long wet walk for Joshua Rylands, as their
only horse had been borrowed by a neighbor.
In that fading light Mrs. Rylands's oval cheek was shining still from
the raindrops, but there was something in the expression of her worried
face that might have as readily suggested tears. She was strikingly
handsome, yet quite as incongruous an ornament to her surroundings as
she had been to her outer wrappings a moment ago. Even the clothes she
now stood in hinted an inadaptibility to the weather--the house--the
position she occupied in it. A figured silk dress, spoiled rather than
overworn, was still of a quality inconsistent with her evident habits,
and the lace-edged petticoat that peeped beneath it was draggled with
mud and unaccustomed usage. Her glossy black hair, which had been tossed
into curls in some foreign fashion, was now wind-blown into a burlesque
of it. This incongruity was still further accented by the appearance of
the room she had entered. It was coldly and severely furnished, making
the chill of the yet damp white plaster unpleasantly obvious.
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