John Trotwood Moore

Jack Ballington, Forester John Trotwood Moore

. . . back half haughtily into the carriage, and a half-protesting look flash for an instant over the pretty face, profiled through the open space. She threw back her head in the old tribute-demanding way, and her half-closed lids veiled her eyes under great curving, brown-red brows. I caught a gleam of the old daring fun in them, as she smiled and held out both her hands, taking mine. "Awfully glad to see you, Jack-welcome home." My heart betrayed itself in the quick glance I gave her. She had developed so wonderfully in those four years. And how I had longed to see her! She sat smiling kindly into my eyes; I stood looking sillily into hers, holding both of her hands in mine, forgetful of Aunt Lucretia, and with no word that I could say to Eloise. "Eloise," I began haltingly at last, "is it-have you-is it really you?" I bent down to kiss her, bu. . .