they will not die. If we wrong them—bah! They wear magenta bows and are ridiculous.
It needs, may be, a sod taken from their soil, a little dust from their hearth shaken over our heads to open our eyes to see that they have like passions and weaknesses with ourselves. Arminell, without speaking, turned to Samuel, and looked at him.
What was there in this poor creature to deserve such faithful love? He was a ruin, and not the ruin of a noble edifice, but of a commonplace man. There was no beauty in him, no indication of talent in his face, no power in the moulding of his brow. He looked absurd in his short, shabby, patched, velveteen coat, his breeches and gaiters on distorted limbs. His attitudes with the ill-set thigh were ungainly. And yet—this handsome woman had given up her life to him.
"He don't seem much to you, perhaps, miss," said Joan, who eagerly scanned Arminell's face, and with the instinctive jealousy of love discovered her thoughts. "But, miss, what saith the Scripture? Look not on his countenance or on the height of his stature. You should ha' seen Samuel before his accidents. Then he was of a ruddy countenance, and goodly to look on. I always see him as he was."
She still searched Arminell's face for token of admiration.
"Lord, miss! tastes differ. Some like apples and others like onions. For my part, I do like a hand wi' two fingers on it, it is uncommon, it is properly out o' the way as hands are. And then, miss, Samuel do seem to me to ha' laid hold of eternity wi' two fingers and a thumb, having sent them on before him, and that is more than can be said of most of us poor sinners here below."
She still studied the girl's countenance, and Arminell controlled its expression.
"Then," Joan continued, "as for his walk, it is lovely.
