The man of the mirror inclined his burden quietly the other way; and now it reflected the bright faces opposite, under the pheasant plumes.  Was it any delight to Leslie to see her own face so?  What was the use of being—­what right had she to wish to be—­pretty and pleasant to look at, when there were such utter lifelong loss and disfigurement in the world for others?  Why should it not as well happen to her?  And how did the world seem to such a person, and where was the worth while of it?  This was the question which lingered last in her mind, and to which all else reverted. To be able to bear—­perhaps this was it; and this was greater, indeed, than any outer grace.

Such as these were the wayside meanings that came to Leslie Goldthwaite that morning in the first few hours of her journey.  Meanwhile, Jeannie and Elinor Hadden had begun to be tired; and Mrs. Linceford, not much entertained with her novel, held it half closed over her finger, drew her brown veil closely, and sat with her eyes shut, compensating herself with a doze for her early rising.  Had the same things come to these?  Not precisely; something else, perhaps.  In all things, one is still taken and another left.  I can only follow, minutely, one.

CHAPTER III.

EYESTONES.

The road left the flat farming country now, and turned northward, up the beautiful river valley.  There was plenty to enjoy outside; and it was growing more and more lovely with almost every mile.  They left the great towns gradually behind; each succeeding one seemed more simply rural.  Young girls were gathered on the platforms at the little stations where they stopped sometimes; it was the grand excitement of the place,—­the coming of the train,—­and to these village lasses was what the piazzas or the springs are to gay dwellers at Saratoga.

By dinner-time they steamed up to the stately back staircase of the “Pemigewasset.”  In the little parlor where they smoothed their hair and rested a moment before going to the dining-hall, they met again the lady of the grass-grown bonnet.  She took this off, making herself comfortable, in her primitive fashion, for dinner; and then Leslie noticed how little it was from any poverty of nature that the fair and abundant hair, at least, had not been made use of to take down the severe primness of her outward style.  It did take it down in spite of all, the moment the gray straw was removed.  The great round coil behind was all real and solid, though it was wound about with no thought save of security, and fastened with a buffalo-horn comb.  Hair was a matter of course; the thing was, to keep it out of the way; that was what the fashion of this head expressed, and nothing more.  Where it was tucked over the small ears,—­and native refinement or the other thing shows very plainly in the ears,—­it lay full, and shaped into a soft curve.  She was only plain, not ugly, after all; and they are very different things,—­there being a beauty of plainness in men and women, as there is in a rich fabric, sometimes.