His face shadowed, and he looked a little disturbed.
“I don't know,” he replied at length; “I give it up.”
He had expected to see a great deal of the girl, but somehow he saw her even oftener than he had anticipated. During the time he spent in the house, chance seemed to throw her continually in his path or under his eye. From his window he saw her carrying water from the spring, driving the small agile cow to and from the mountain pasturage, or idling in the shade. Upon the whole it was oftener this last than any other occupation. With her neglected knitting in her hands she would sit for hours under a certain low-spreading cedar not far from the door, barefooted, coarsely clad, beautiful,—every tinge of the sun, every indifferent leisurely movement, a new suggestion of a new grace.
It would have been impossible to resist the temptation to watch her; and this Lennox did at first almost unconsciously. Then he did more. One beautiful still morning she stood under the cedar, her hand thrown lightly above her head to catch at a bough, and as she remained motionless, he made a sketch of her. When it was finished he was seized with the whimsical impulse to go out and show it to her.
She took it with an uncomprehending air, but the moment she saw what it was a flush of triumph and joy lighted up her face.
“It's me,” she cried in a low, eager voice. “Me! Do I look like that thar? Do I?”
“You look as that would look if it had color, and was more complete.”
She glanced up at him sharply.
“D'ye mean if it was han'somer?”
He was tempted into adding to her excitement with a compliment.