Blanche released the girl’s arm and spread out her hand, palm upwards. For all their condition of care there were lines indicating utility in them.
“Surely. And they’re strong, too. Nearly as strong as yours. Oh, yes. I never let them get afraid of work.”
Molly sighed.
“They’re real beautiful,” she said. “Oh, I’d just love my hands to be like yours. But they aren’t, an’ never will be. You can’t plough, an’ milk, an’ fork hay, an’ do the chores of the farm, an’ keep swell hands. But, my,” she went on, with a little firm setting of her lips, “it doesn’t matter. Those things don’t really matter, do they? You’ve got to make good in these hills, and you can’t do that right without using the hands God gave you.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “You know, I never used to think about hands, and feet, and pretty fixings. I can’t think why I do now.”
They were nearing the house, which Blanche was regarding interestedly. But now she turned, and her eyes contained all the twinkling humour of her brother’s.
“When a girl suddenly gets worried about those things she hadn’t bothered with before there’s mostly—a beau around,” she said slily.
Molly half halted, and turned her startled eyes upon her companion.
“How—how? I never thought that way. I——”
“Then there is a beau?”
Molly linked her arm through the other’s again and squeezed it.