A shadow falling across the sunshine in the door way checked her and made her look up.
It had rather an arousing effect upon her to find herself confronting the young woman, Lodusky, who stood upon the threshold, regarding her with an air entirely composed, slightly mingled with interest.
“I was in at Mis' Harney's,” she remarked, as if the explanation was upon the whole rather superfluous, “'n' I thought I'd come in 'n' see ye.”
During her sojourn of three weeks Rebecca had learned enough of the laws of mountain society to understand that the occasion only demanded of her friendliness of demeanor and perfect freedom from ceremony. She rose and placed a chair for her guest.
“I am glad to see you,” she said.
Lodusky seated herself.
It was entirely unnecessary to attempt to set her at ease; her composure was perfect. The flaunt-ing-patterned calico must have been a matter of full dress. It had been replaced by a blue-and-white-checked homespun gown—a coarse cotton garment short and scant. Her feet were bare, and their bareness was only a revelation of greater beauty, so perfect was their arched slenderness. Miss Dunbar crossed them with unembarrassed freedom, and looked at the stranger as if she found her worth steady inspection.
“Thet thar's a purty dress you're a-wearin',” she vouchsafed at length.
Rebecca glanced down at her costume. Being a sensible young person, she had attired herself in apparel suitable for mountain rambling. Her dress was simple pilgrim gray, taut made and trim; but she never lost an air of distinction which rendered abundant adornments a secondary matter.
“It is very plain,” she answered. “I believe its chief object; is to be as little in the way as possible.”