CHAPTER X. THE BIRTH-MARK.
Like most Southerners, Major McDowell had the happy faculty of entertaining his guests royally.
The New Yorker was there for the day, at the kind solicitation of the Major and his most estimable wife. Afternoon brought a rimming haze; the wind had hushed, and the thick, lifeless air bespoke rain. A cloud no bigger than a man’s hand had gathered at low-sky; then mounted, swelling, to the zenith, and wrapped the heavens in a pall and covered the earth’s face with darkness that was fearfully illumined by the lightning’s glare.
Host and guest stood by an open window looking to the southward. Rain came down, pelting the earth with a sheeted fall that soon sent muddy runnels adown every fresh furrow. Before the rain was half over, horses were led from their stalls to the dripping freedom of wide pasture lands.
How green, and still, and sweet-smelling it lies. No wonder the animals ran ecstatically about, neighing, prancing, nipping one at the other, snatching lush, tender mouthfuls between rolls on the soft, wet turf.
“A goodly sight, Major; I see that you have peculiar advantages of soil and climate for stock-raising,” remarked the guest.
“That must be true, and it is a recognition of that superiority that sends breeders from all parts of the world to Kentucky. ‘Kentucky for fine horses, good whiskey, and pretty women,’ is a maxim old and doubtless true.”
“I can vouch for the first two, but it has not been my luck to meet many of your fair women.”
“Well, it is proof true,” said the Major; “look for yourself,” and he pointed to the forest lawn where a young woman was coming between the elm rows, a child’s hand in each of her own. Her figure preserved that girlish accent which few women manage to carry over into womanhood.
She had blonde-brown hair, and blue eyes—very dark and tender. She looked up as she passed the window, and was none the less charming for her startled look. The quick averted glance sent a blush to the face of Willard Frost.