“But—” began Isabelle.
“But—Mr. Brook has made his own choice. We owe him for much kindness. There is nothing more to be said about it,” said Mrs. Beckwith, rising. “Here comes a lady walking. Is it your ‘Miss Joanna,’ children?”
“Yes, oh! yes! Look at her, before she spies us watching. Isn’t she a sweet old lady? Isn’t she the lady of your chrysanthemum dream?”
Over the lawn where the grass was just springing into greenness came the tall, graceful figure, which despite its seventy-odd years was still as straight as Isabelle’s, who, looking curiously, remembered her brother’s words of the evening before, “If you want models, where can you find them better than here?”
Ah! indeed, Miss Joanna would be a model fit to inspire a genius! Her face was like the tint of a late blush rose, frost-faded. Her eyes were dark, her mouth firm and sweet, and her snowy hair, parted on either side her temples, framed them in silver. On her head she wore a big gray hat, tied primly under her chin, and over the soft gray morning-gown a shawl of the same neutral tint, which clothed—not hung upon—her shoulders. But it was the expression of her countenance that captivated them all, even the matter-of-fact Robert.
“Wull, be you the egg woman?”
Mindful of past advice, the youngster slipped down from his place, set the door wide, and advancing held out his crumby hand. “Wull, be you the egg woman? I’m very glad to see you. Come right in. We’ve just done eatin’ breakfas’. This is Motherkin, an’ these is the rest of us.”
“You are Robert! No need to tell me that!” responded the visitor, smiling, and not refusing the proffered handshake, though she looked regretfully at her soiled glove the second afterward. “I have heard of you, and the pleasure of acquaintance is mutual. Good-morning, Mrs. Beckwith—Isabelle—Roland, and my girl. I hope you have rested well.”
“Good-morning. Will you sit down here, or come into the other room? My Beatrice has scarcely told us which is ‘best-room’ as yet. They all seem so fine and comfortable to us.”