"Eh—cook?" said the Major, staring at the small speaker. "Child, how old are you?"
"Nine, please sir."
"Lord!" exclaimed the Major, and lifting her up he kissed her rosy cheek and, taking off his hat, stood to watch the small figure flit away down the grassy way beyond.
Hat in hand he leaned there once again, revolving in his mind the old problem under a new aspect, thus:
Question: Which is the more worthy, a humble village child of nine who cooks her father's supper or a proud and idle young goddess who wears——
The Major sighed and put on his hat.
CHAPTER XIII
OF INDIGNATION, A WOOD, AND A GIPSY
It was at this juncture that the Major became aware of a tall, buxom, not to say strapping country-wench approaching down the lane, sun-bonnet on head and large basket on comely arm; one garbed as all maids should be, in simple gown that allowed free play to vigorous, young limbs; one who moved with step blithe and purposeful, doubtless busied upon some useful and womanly duty as all women should be.