‘I rather gathered as much,’ said Miss Froxfield, releasing her hands. When she told him that the natives called her The Dawn Pearl, his delight was unbounded. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. She was correct, and when I went directly to the street she had named, there you were, walking into the Butcher Shop.
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