She looked up at him, almost gratefully. “This will be one of the best sketches I have taken here,” she said. “It is so thoroughly picturesque: and that farm-house, under the hill, gives life to the picture.”
Charlotte Pain cast her eyes upon the house in the distance over the green field, to which she had not before vouchsafed a glance. A shade of contempt crossed her face.
“Call that a farm-house! I should say it was a tumble-down old cottage.”
“It is large for a cottage; and has a barn and a shed round it,” returned Maria. “I conclude that it was a farm some time.”
“It is not inhabited,” said Charlotte.
“Oh, yes it is. There is a woman standing at the door. I have put her into my sketch.”
“And her pipe also?” cried George.
“Her pipe!”
George took his own cigar from his mouth, as he answered. “She is smoking, that woman. A short pipe.”
Maria shaded her eyes with her hand, and gazed attentively. “I—really—do—think—she—is!” she exclaimed slowly. “What a strange thing!”