Mysie could not speak. She was overwhelmed by the blast of oratory upon
air, and a woman who sat on the far side of a closed window, with
tight-drawn lips and smoldering eyes, looked challengingly at this fresh
air fanatic, observing with quiet sarcasm: "A complexion like that might
make a fortune, if done with colors to the life, in advertising some
one's 'Old Highland'!"
The fresh air apostle gasped a little, looking across at the grim set
mouth and the quiet, steady eyes, as if he would like to retort; but,
finding no ready words, he merely wiped his forehead, and then subsided
helplessly in his corner seat, as the lady rose, and, going over to the
window, said to Mysie, as she closed it: "It is a little cold to-night,
after the scorching heat of the daytime, and one is apt to catch cold
very readily in a draught at an open carriage window. There, we'll all
feel more comfortable now, I fancy. It is a little chilly." The poor
worm who had always lived and thrived upon fresh air felt himself
shriveling up in the corner, and growing so small that he might easily
slip through the seam at the hinges of the carriage door.
Mysie merely lay back in her corner without speaking.
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