One of the hens did "take it." So did some one else. The missile struck just beneath the fowl as she fled, lifted her and a peck or two of soil as well, and hurled the whole mass almost into the face of a person who, unseen until then, had advanced along the path from the gate and had arrived at that spot at that psychological instant. This person uttered a little scream, the hen fled with insane yells, the log and its accompanying shower fell back to earth, and Sears Kendrick and the young woman—for the newcomer was a young woman—stood and looked at each other.
She was bareheaded and her hair was dark and abundant, and she was wearing a gingham dress and a white apron. So much he noticed at this, their first meeting. Afterward he became aware that she was slender and that her age might perhaps be twenty-four or twenty-five. At that moment, of course, he did not notice anything except that her apron and dress—yes, even her hair and face—were plentifully besprinkled with earth and that she was holding a hand to her eyes as if they, too, might have received a share of the results of the terrestrial disturbance.
"Oh!" he stammered. "I'm awfully sorry! I—I hope I didn't hurt you."
If she heard him she did not answer, but, removing her hand, opened and shut her eyes rapidly. The captain's alarm grew as he watched this proceeding.
"I—I do hope I didn't hurt you," he repeated. "It—it didn't put your eyes out, did it?"
She smiled, although rather uncertainly. "No," she said.
"You're sure?"
"Yes." The smile became broader. "It's not quite as bad as that, I guess. I seem to be able to see all right."
He drew a relieved breath. "Well, I'm thankful for so much, then," he announced. "But it's all over your dress—and—and in your hair—and.... Oh, I am sorry!"
She laughed at this outburst. "It is all right," she declared. "Of course it was an accident, and I'm not hurt a bit, really."