He stood there with his arms folded, silently gazing upon the thin form of Mrs.Wentworth, who, with clasped hands and outstretched arms, anxiously awaited his decision.

But he gave no promise of acquiescence, no hope of pity, no look of charity in his features--they looked cold, stern, and vexed.
There she stood the picture of grief, awaiting the words that would either give her hope or plunge her forever into the fathomless depths of despair.

The eyes of the soldier's wife were turned on Mr.Elder with a sad and supplicating look.

In any other but the cold, calculating creature before her, their look might have moved to pity, but with him nothing availed; not even a struggle for mastery between humanity and brutality could be seen, and as she gazed upon him she felt that there was no chance of her wishes being gratified.
Her little son clung to her dress half frightened at the attitude of his mother, and the stern and unforbidding aspect of Mr.Elder.

Ella strove to rise while her mother was speaking, but fell back on her bed unable to perform the effort.