Storms might have been deceived but for the swift blushes that swept that face, and the smile that would not be suppressed.
"I have been so busy," he said; "and this is an out-of-the-way place."
Out-of-the-way place! Why, Judith had seen him ride by a dozen times without casting his eyes toward the poor house she lived in, and each time with a swift pang at the heart; but she would have died rather than let him know it, having a fair amount of pride in her nature, crude as it was.
"Will you come in?" she said, after an awkward pause.
The young man lifted his hat and accepted this half-rude invitation.
He did draw water from the well that day, while Judith stood by with a glass in her hand, exulting while she watched him toil at the windlass, as she had done when he asked for a drink. Some vague idea of a woman's dignity had found exaggerated development since that time in Judith's nature, and though she dipped the water from the bucket, and held it sparkling toward him, it was with the air of an Indian princess, scorning toil, but offering hospitality. She was piqued with the man, and would not seem too glad that he had come back again.
"There is no water in all the valley like that in your well," he said, draining the glass and giving it back with a smile; "no view so beautiful as that which strikes the river yonder and looks up the gorge. There must be pleasant walks in that direction."
"There the river is awful deep, and a precipice shelves over it ever so high. I love to sit there sometimes, though it makes most people dizzy."
"Some day you will show me the place?"
"Oh, it is found easy enough. A foot-path is worn through the orchard. Everybody knows the way."