“Why, that’s real kind of you, and—and I’m very grateful.”
Blanche gazed interestedly down upon the tall creature. She knew him at once. There could be no mistake. This was the Marton farm. So this queer, grey-whiskered creature must be “Lightning” she had been told about. The man impressed her. There was something tremendously purposeful in the hard lines of his weather-beaten face. There was something compelling in his eyes, and in the aquilinity of his nose. Then there were his old guns on the belt at his waist. He was startlingly picturesque.
“You’re the owner of this farm?” Blanche suggested shrewdly.
“Hired man, ma’am.”
“Oh. Then Molly’s not your daughter?”
Lightning shook his head, and his gaze wandered regretfully towards the farm.
“Can’t just say she is, ma’am,” he said. “I work for her. She hires me. But if you’ll kindly foller right along I’ll lead the way to the farm, where Molly gal’ll be right glad to welcome you.”
Molly saw Lightning and the stranger approach from the doorway of the house. She was washing out some garments, revelling in the wonderful spring sunshine. There were already a number of articles drying on the near-by bushes, and the iron bath, over which she was standing, was a-froth with a lather of soap-suds.
She left her work at once and came down to the barn. The impulse was irresistible. The sleeves of her shirt-waist were rolled up, displaying a pair of beautifully rounded arms, and a linen sun-bonnet enveloped her neat, dark head.