Presently he heard a faint rustle at the other end of the room, and he
turned. A sudden tremulousness swept along his pulses, and then they
seemed to pause; he drew a deep breath that was almost a sigh, and
remained motionless.

He had no preconceived idea of falling in love with Miss Sally at first
sight, nor had he dreamed such a thing possible. Even the girlish face
that he had seen in the locket, although it had stirred him with a
singular emotion, had not suggested that. And the ideal he had evolved
from it was never a potent presence. But the exquisitely pretty face
and figure before him, although it might have been painted from his own
fancy of her, was still something more and something unexpected. All
that had gone before had never prepared him for the beautiful girl who
now stood there. It was a poor explanation to say that Miss Sally was
four or five years older than her picture, and that later experiences,
enlarged capacity, a different life, and new ambition had impressed her
youthful face with a refined mobility; it was a weird fancy to imagine
that the blood of those who had died for her had in some vague,
mysterious way imparted an actual fascination to her, and he dismissed
it. But even the most familiar spectator, like Sophy, could see that
Miss Sally had the softest pink complexion, the silkiest hair, that
looked as the floss of the Indian corn might look if curled, or golden
spider threads if materialized, and eyes that were in bright gray
harmony with both; that the frock of India muslin, albeit home-made,
fitted her figure perfectly, from the azure bows on her shoulders to the
ribbon around her waist; and that the hem of its billowy skirt showed a
foot which had the reputation of being the smallest foot south of Mason
and Dixon's Line! But it was something more intangible than this which
kept Courtland breathless and silent.