Suffering, it was clear, had crushed all self-consciousness out of her. She knew no shyness, no false shame; performing her natural functions simple as a creature of the Wilderness.
Then she came wading towards him, her baby wet and slippery in her arms. The sun had burnt her a rich olive hue, deepening the red in her cheek, touching her throat to gold. With her orange turban crowning her swarthy hair she looked a gypsy Juno.
More massive than of old, matured in face and figure, she was a woman now and not a girl: one who had fought and suffered and endured, and bore on her body the stigmata of her ordeal. There was no laughter in her, and no trace of coquetry. Almost austere, nobly indifferent, she was facing life without fear and with little hope.
Ernie was shy and self-conscious as she was the reverse.
"You don't go to the Lock then?" he said stupidly.
"Nay," Ruth answered. "The Lock's for the lads. This'n's for baby and me. More loo like."
"She seems to favour it," said Ernie.
"Aye, she's unaccountable fond of the water, same as her mother." Her speech had taken once again the tone of her village environment.
The young mother sat down on the bank, and turning the child face down, began to stroke her back with strong caressing rhythmical sweep.
Ernie, watching, was amazed at the skill and easy masterfulness of her motions.