Daisy half an hour later, and unconsciously framing in words the thoughts
which her face suggested.

I know not how to describe the changes which this lapse of time had
wrought upon her countenance and carriage. In the more obvious, outward
sense, it had scarcely aged her. She was now twenty-three years of age,
and I doubt a stranger would have deemed her older. Yet, looking upon her
and listening to her, I seemed to feel that, instead of being four years
her senior, I was in truth the younger of the two. The old buoyant,
girlish air was all gone, for one thing. She spoke now with gentle,
sweet-toned gravity; and her eyes, frankly meeting mine as of old, had in
their glance a soft, reposeful dignity which was new to me.

Almost another Daisy, too, she seemed in face. It was the woman in her
features, I dare say, which disconcerted me. I had expected changes,
perhaps, but not upon these lines. She had been the prettiest maiden of
the Valley, beyond all others. She was not pretty now, I should say, but
she _was_ beautiful--somewhat pallid, yet not to give an air of unhealth;
the delicate chiselling of features yielded now not merely the pleasure
of regularity, but the subtler charm of sensitive, thoughtful character.
The eyes and hair seemed a deeper hazel, a darker brown, than they had
been. The lips had lost some, thing of their childish curve, and met each
other in a straight line--fairer than ever, I thought, because more firm.

I am striving now, you see, against great odds, to revive in words the
impressions of difference which came to me in those first hours, as I
scanned her face. They furnish forth no real portrait of the dear lady:
how could I hope they should? But they help to define, even if dimly, the
changes toward strength and self-control I found in her.