Then for the first time Mr. John Mangam gave evidence of life. He did not speak, but he made an inarticulate noise between a grunt and a sniff.
“Well, if you call that man good-lookin',” said Mrs. Lynn, “you don't see the way I do, that's all.” She looked straight at Mr. John Mangam as she spoke.
“I don't call him good-looking at all,” said the old woman; “dreadful white-livered.”
Sarah said nothing at all, but the face of the man, Hyacinthus Ware, was before her eyes still, as beautiful and grand as the face of a god.
“Never heerd such a name, either,” said the old woman. “His mother was dreadful flowery. She had some outlandish blood. I don't know whether she was Eyetalian or Dutch.”
“Her mother was Greek, I always heard,” said Mrs. Lynn. “I dun'no' as I ever heard of any other Greek round these parts. I guess they don't emigrate much.”
“I guess it was Greek, now you speak of it,” said the old woman. “I knew she was outlandish on one side, anyhow. An' as fur callin' him good-lookin'—” She looked aggressively at her great-granddaughter, whose beautiful face was turned toward the moonlit night.
It was a long time that they sat there. It had been a very hot day, and the cool was grateful. Hardly a remark was made, except one from Mrs. Lynn that it was a blessing there were so few mosquitoes and they could sit outdoors such a night.
“I ain't heerd but one all the time I've been settin' here,” said the old woman, “and I ketched him.”
Sarah, the girl, continued to drink, to eat, to imbibe, to assimilate, toward her spiritual growth, the beauty of the night, the gentle slope of the mountain, the wavering wings of the shadows, the song of the river, the calls of the whippoorwill and the katydids, the perfume of the unseen green things in the wet places, and the overmastering sweetness of the lilies.