But Fleming was too astounded to speak. With the opening of the door the sunbonnet had fallen back like a buggy top, disclosing for the first time the head and shoulders of the wearer. She was not a child, but a smart young woman of seventeen or eighteen, and much of his embarrassment arose from the consciousness that he had no reason whatever for having believed her otherwise.
“I hope I didn't interrupt your singing,” he said awkwardly.
“It was only one o' mammy's camp-meetin' songs,” said the girl.
“Your mother? Is she in?” he asked, glancing past the girl into the kitchen.
“'Tain't mother—she's dead. Mammy's our old nurse. She's gone to Jimtown, and taken my duds to get some new ones fitted to me. These are some o' mother's.”
This accounted for her strange appearance; but Fleming noticed that the girl's manner had not the slightest consciousness of their unbecomingness, nor of the charms of face and figure they had marred.
She looked at him curiously. “Hev you got religion?”
“Well, no!” said Fleming, laughing; “I'm afraid not.”
“Dad hez—he's got it pow'ful.”
“Is that the reason he don't like miners?” asked Fleming.