“Don't what?” a hoarse voice asked above her head.
“Don't stamp on those bramble flowers, you dolt!” she retorted, springing to her knees. The foot paused and then descended clumsily on the frail branch, and raising her eyes she saw above her the bewildered face of a slouching man with a thin sunburnt beard, and white arms showing through his ragged shirt.
“Don't you ever SEE anything, Liff Hyatt?” she assailed him, as he stood before her with the look of a man who has stirred up a wasp's nest.
He grinned. “I seen you! That's what I come down for.”
“Down from where?” she questioned, stooping to gather up the petals his foot had scattered.
He jerked his thumb toward the heights. “Been cutting down trees for Dan Targatt.”
Charity sank back on her heels and looked at him musingly. She was not in the least afraid of poor Liff Hyatt, though he “came from the Mountain,” and some of the girls ran when they saw him. Among the more reasonable he passed for a harmless creature, a sort of link between the mountain and civilized folk, who occasionally came down and did a little wood cutting for a farmer when hands were short. Besides, she knew the Mountain people would never hurt her: Liff himself had told her so once when she was a little girl, and had met him one day at the edge of lawyer Royall's pasture. “They won't any of 'em touch you up there, f'ever you was to come up.... But I don't s'pose you will,” he had added philosophically, looking at her new shoes, and at the red ribbon that Mrs. Royall had tied in her hair.
Charity had, in truth, never felt any desire to visit her birthplace. She did not care to have it known that she was of the Mountain, and was shy of being seen in talk with Liff Hyatt. But today she was not sorry to have him appear. A great many things had happened to her since the day when young Lucius Harney had entered the doors of the Hatchard Memorial, but none, perhaps, so unforeseen as the fact of her suddenly finding it a convenience to be on good terms with Liff Hyatt. She continued to look up curiously at his freckled weather-beaten face, with feverish hollows below the cheekbones and the pale yellow eyes of a harmless animal. “I wonder if he's related to me?” she thought, with a shiver of disdain.
“Is there any folks living in the brown house by the swamp, up under Porcupine?” she presently asked in an indifferent tone.
Liff Hyatt, for a while, considered her with surprise; then he scratched his head and shifted his weight from one tattered sole to the other.