Her lips were very full and red, and she sat with
them parted so that the edges of her fine teeth showed. Her nose was
large, and a fine reddish-brown colour glowed in her cheeks. Though
different, she had, like Jane McPherson, a habit of silence; and under her
silence, she, like Sam's mother, possessed an unusually strong and
vigorous mind.
As a child she was a sort of half invalid and had not been on friendly
footing with other children. It was then that her habit of silence and
reticence had been established. The years in the school in Massachusetts
restored her health but did not break this habit. She came home and took
the place in the schools to earn money with which to take her back East,
dreaming of a position as instructor in an eastern college. She was that
rare thing, a woman scholar, loving scholarship for its own sake.
Mary Underwood's position in the town and in the schools was insecure. Out
of her silent, independent way of life had sprung a misunderstanding that,
at least once, had taken definite form and had come near driving her from
the town and schools. That she did not succumb to the storm of criticism
that for some weeks beat about her head was due to her habit of silence
and to a determination to get her own way in the face of everything.
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