fireplace with the sleepy Elizabeth on her knees, telling the child a story from the quaint Dutch tiles.
Hilvardine Van Straalen was a tall, slender girl, with a figure which gave promise of a richer outline in the years to come. Her dark hair, broad, white brow, large, brown eyes fringed with dark lashes, her changing expression and fleeting color, made her face singularly attractive. Possibly some would say that the small mouth closed a trifle too firmly for a girl of eighteen years, and that her chin was too clear-cut and resolute for amiability. But no one could deny that her voice was soft and low, and there was witchery in her musical laugh.
The sudden opening of the outer door made the occupants of the kitchen look anxiously around.
“My son, my Conrad!” cried Madam Chenoweth as she folded her boy to her heart and pressed a fond kiss on his lips.
Little Elizabeth roused at the commotion, and with a cry of joy ran and threw her arms about her brother.
“Softly, softly, thou small hurricane!” said Conrad as he disengaged himself from this violent embrace and tossed his little sister to a perch on his shoulder.
Hilvardine rose as though to leave the kitchen, but the young advocate, who had noted her every movement since he entered the room, came forward and intercepted her flight.
