After a space spent thus, with Stockings standing beneath her like a rock, she turned over what was to be done. She frowned a little and nursed her lip. It was not a pleasant errand she had come on, nor one with a beginning easy to find. She had come to talk with the girl that lived here, and bring her to a decision. She must give Jim yes or no. Let her have him if she wanted; but let her say so. This could not go on. His character was being sapped away. Let the girl take him and he would have what he wanted, or let her send him away and he must pull himself together. It did not matter to her—Maud. Things had gone too far. The worst had been over a long time, and she could look the future in the face. She was sure she did not care now as acutely as once she had done. She would do him this kindness for old times sake, and then she must begin to put him out of her life. But it was a hateful business. She might meet scorn at the girl's hands—worse, Jim might hear of her errand and think she was willing to throw pride away, if by hook or by crook she could clutch back his affection. Well, love must go on many services, and the trusted servant travels always by unkindest ways.
She ordered Stockings forward, and he backed from the edge of the Pool into the trees and followed the bridle path where soon the camp would discover itself. The gentle birds piped them down their passage. The hut came out among the trees. It looked mean and shabby from long wooing by the weather. The hessian walls were drooping and the tents had crumbled.
She pulled up the horse before he had carried her from the shelter of the trees. She was disturbed again as to what to do. She must pretend to come that way by chance. And how do that? She might ride up to the door and ask for a cup of water. And then father or mother might open to her. Well, things would happen as they would happen, and wit was the serving man to enlist.
When she was ready to give Stockings the signal to advance, he lifted his ears. She followed their direction and discovered she was watched. Next instant she found the watcher was the girl she had come to find. The child must have gone among the trees to gather dead branches for firewood, and now stood there among the trunks, as still as they, staring at her boldly. The figure might have been a dryad pausing on the instant before flight. Its loveliness wounded her as though a dart had been cast at her. Who could look upon such beauty and after be content with less? She touched the flank of her big horse, and he carried her across the space still to traverse. He came to full stop when she tightened the reins.
She must be the first to speak. The girl had stood unmoved the while, looking her boldly in the face. She wondered if she guessed her name from hearsay.
"That must be hot work for the middle of the day. It would have waited for evening. But I'm setting no better example, am I, riding about the country like this? I was glad to find these trees."
She looked the girl over from head to foot. She judged her to be eighteen years old or no more than nineteen, but a flower which had come quick to bloom. She looked her over with uncharitable eyes, but nowhere found fault. She gave up the task to tell herself never had she seen such beauty. The girl returned stare for stare.
"I was gettin' a few sticks together," Moll Gregory answered. "Dad went off without chopping a thing this morning, and we've run short."
"Are you in a hurry to be back with them?"
"No. Why?"