She was indeed seventeen next day. And the sign of her womanhood was that when she came down in the morning her hair was bunched in a neat little coil at the back of her head. Because of it she was shy and somewhat defiant. Dressed for hunting in snowy shirt and long-skirted dark coat, she entered the parlour more swiftly than her wont, in her shoes and stockings, and carrying her riding-boots in her hand.
Her father's mild blue eye penetrated her secret at once.
"That's a little bit o' better," he said. "It's Miss Woodburn now."
"Now then, father," reproved Mrs. Woodburn.
"Oh, I knows my place, plea Gob," mumbled the old man. "Ought to arter all the trainin' you been at the pains to put me to." And he winked and chuckled and grunted over his porridge.
"Let me look at you, Boy," said her mother, when the teasing old man had gone.
The girl coloured faintly. Her mother kissed her. "Joyce," she said gravely, "you're a woman now."
"Am I, mother?" laughed the girl. "I feel like a boy sometimes still."
She was gay with an unusual gaiety.
Her mother marked it with those observant eyes of hers.