At the Time Appointed

To Darrell his voice sounded faint and far away, like an echo out of a

vast distance, and it was some seconds before he could realize where he

was or form any definite idea of his surroundings. Gradually he became

conscious that the air was no longer hot and stifling, but cool and

fragrant with the sweet, resinous breath of pines. Looking about him, he

saw they were winding upward along an avenue cut through a forest of

small, slender pines, which extended below them on one side and far

above them on the other.

A moment later they came out into a clearing, whence he could see,

rising directly before him, in a series of natural terraces, the slopes

of the sombre-hued, pine-clad mountain which overlooked the little city.

Upon one of the terraces of the mountain stood a massive house of unhewn

granite, a house representing no particular style of architecture, but

whose deep bay-windows, broad, winding verandas, and shadowy, secluded

balconies all combined to present an aspect most inviting. To Darrell

the place had an irresistible charm; he gazed at it as though

fascinated, unable to take his eyes from the scene.

"You certainly have a beautiful home, Mr. Underwood," he said, "and a

most unique location. I never saw anything quite like it."

"It will do," said the elder man, quietly, gratified by what he saw in

his companion's face. "I built it for my little girl. It was her own

idea to have it that way, and she has named it 'The Pines.' Thank God,

I've got her left yet, but she is about all."

Something in his tone caused Darrell to glance quickly towards him with

a look of sympathetic inquiry. They were now approaching the house, and

Mr. Underwood turned, facing him, a smile for the first time lighting up

his stern, rugged features, as he said,-"You will find us what my little girl calls a 'patched-up' family. I am

a widower; my widowed sister keeps house for me, and Harry, whom I had

grown to consider almost a son, was an orphan. But the family, such as

it is, will make you welcome; I can speak for that. Here we are!"

With a supreme effort Darrell summoned all his energies as Mr. Underwood

assisted him from the carriage and into the house. But the ringing and

pounding in his head increased, his brain seemed reeling, and he was so

nearly blinded by pain that, notwithstanding his efforts, he was forced

to admit to himself, as a little later he sank upon a couch in the room

assigned to him, that his impressions of the ladies to whom he had just

been presented were exceedingly vague.

Mr. Underwood's sister, Mrs. Dean, he remembered as a large woman,

low-voiced, somewhat resembling her brother in manner, and like him, of

few words, yet something in her greeting had assured him of a welcome

as deep as it was undemonstrative. Of Kate Underwood, in whom he had

felt more than a passing interest, remembering Whitcomb's love for his

cousin, he recalled a tall, slender, girlish form; a wealth of

golden-brown hair, and a pair of large, luminous brown eyes, whose

wistful, almost appealing look haunted him strangely, though he was

unable to recall another feature of her face.