‘No, father died when I was quite a baby, but my grandfather sent me to school.’
‘Then you live with your mother, I suppose?’
‘No, I live alone here. This farm belongs to me.’
She could not help peeping out beneath her lashes to judge of the effect of her words, and was gratified when the busy brush paused and the dark eyes glanced down at her in astonishment.
‘You live alone here? But this is a big farm—you can’t manage it all yourself?’
‘Yes, I do. It is hard work, but I contrive to do it. I am rather lonely, though.’
‘That will be remedied in time,’ said the artist encouragingly. ‘The right man will come along, and perhaps,’ he added with that queer smile of his, ‘you won’t find him so ugly as the rest.’
‘You don’t know who I am or you would n’t speak like that,’ said Rosalie with dignity; adding, with a softer inflexion of her voice: ‘The right man has come—and gone. I am a widow.’
And unclasping the hands beneath her head, she thrust forward the left one with the shining wedding-ring.
Confusion and concern now replaced the careless gaiety of the stranger’s face.