The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. "Good-bye, Mac. Nor can we. She intercepted the glance the spinsters exchanged, and immediately sensed that she had said too much. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. She could tell it was new territory for him and he might lose the nerve to take them off himself, without the aid of drink. She drew it out with shaking fingers. Clotilde’s stunning green eyes were reflected in the gazes of the tender young children, but their faces had been hollow and sunken, their hair matted, and their clothing in bad need of repair.
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