The sunshine fell across the floor in a flood of smoky brightness, and full in the sun’s beams sat Anne Champion, surrounded by the straw she was plaiting. It was piled up round her, within reach of her fingers, that moved like lightning at her mechanical toil.
Anne wore a gown of pink calico, and, whether for greater comfort or from mere untidiness, all her yellow hair hung over her shoulders in splendid confusion. She let her work fall at sight of a stranger, started up, and standing almost knee-deep among the straw, caught at her hair, and began to wind it up into a knot.
The young man stood still on the threshold for a full minute, as I have said. Then he seemed to recollect himself, and stepping across the floor he held out his hand to the girl, smiling very pleasantly.
‘I scarce need to ask if you are Anne Champion,’ he said.
Anne seemed too much taken aback by this unexpected visitor to make any reply. She stood looking at him and twisting her long yellow hair between her fingers. At last she said—
‘Yes, sir, I be Anne Champion,’ and waited for him to make known his errand.
The young man did not seem to be in any hurry, however. He looked round the bare little room, and then looked again at Anne before he spoke.
‘I am come to make excuses,’ he said then; ‘and if you will allow me to sit down, for I am weak still from a fever, I shall make them to the best of my ability.’
Anne produced a stool from a corner and proffered it to her visitor.
‘I am come from Flanders,’ he began again; but he did not speak like one intent on his business: his bright eyes were fixed on Anne; he seemed to be speaking of one thing and thinking of another. His words, however, had a quick effect on Anne—her look of perplexed shyness had vanished.