Those tresses are beautiful, but not so beautiful as
Edith's. Her blue-black hair is thicker, glossier, more abundant
than in her childhood, and is worn in heavy braids or bands around
her head, adding greatly to her regal style of beauty. Edith has a
pardonable pride in her satin hair, and as she stands before the
mirror she steals an occasional glance at her crowning glory,
which is this afternoon arranged with far more care than usual;
not for any particular reason, but because she had a fancy that it
should be so.
They were going to visit Grassy Spring, a handsome country seat,
whose grounds lay contiguous to those of Collingwood, and whose
walls were in winter plainly discernible from the windows of the
upper rooms. It had recently been purchased and fitted up somewhat
after the style of Collingwood, and its owner was expected to take
possession in a few days. Edith's heart always beat faster when
she heard his name, for Arthur St. Claire was one of the links of
the past which still lingered in the remembrance. She had never
seen him since they parted in Albany, and after his leaving
college she lost sight of him entirely.
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