There was something very charming about Aunt Carrie. Even handling the food betrayed her culture, and her solicitation about another’s comfort, all pointed to a knowledge of the little things acquired in good breeding. And she was well cared for in spite of the mountain life; her skin though dark was velvety, her hair like white floss, and only when she removed her gloves for handling the food did her little friends have an opportunity of noticing, besides the care her hands received, that she wore a great opal ring, carved with the beetle, perhaps.
Peg was coming back, and her pockets had been emptied, for the heavy skirt now slinked around her slender form. She held her boyish hat by its chin strap and smiled happily as she fell in with the group.
Yes, her eyes were of the same deep, dark cast, and her skin had that same olive tint, even her gestures showed what a real relation this girl was to the woman in the old-fashioned riding habit.
“You ride a lot, don’t you?” said Cleo, carelessly.
“Yes, it’s the one thing to do out here,” replied Peg. She was trying something from a number of tempting food samples offered her.
“And you enjoy riding, Miss Ramsdell?” said Miss Mackin to the aunt.
“I feel more at home on a horse than I do on my feet,” replied the woman. “But you see, I have always been used to horses.”
“And not to feet——” flashed Peg.
“Now, my dear, don’t tease an old lady. I have hard work enough to keep up with you on foot or in the saddle,” replied Aunt Carrie.
Both Cleo and Grace were thinking of the girl Leonore Fairbanks, and both were anxious to mention to Peg her presence at the log cabin. It came about precipitately, however.