He held out the hare and the three birds in one great red paw, grinning amiably, yet with a glint in his red-brown eyes. Bess smiled at Dan under her scarlet hood. A lass needed wit in such a woodland haunt as this, where the strongest arm ruled, and men fought like quick, subtle, and resourceful, glib with her tongue and clever with her eyes. The felinity of her nature was developed when she must purr and fawn, or spit and extend her claws as necessity commanded. Bess did not love Black Dan, but Isaac Grimshaw’s son was a man to be humored rather than rebuffed.
“You have a good heart, Dan,” she said, kindly enough. “I was oversharp with ye last night. I jumped out of bed on the left side, and was as cross in the cold as might be. Won’t you come in and take breakfast with us?”
The man turned and walked with her towards the cottage, carrying the game in one hand, the gun in the other. His eyes watched Bess as she walked, tall and straight as a cypress, her stride almost that of a man, her head poised finely on her slightly arched neck. He noticed the muscles and sinews standing out in the strong brown forearm that carried the pail, the trim, gray-stockinged ankles under the short red petticoat.
“Did ye dream of me, Bess?” he asked, with a grin.
“Not I,” she laughed, good-humoredly.
“Or of young David?”
“No, nor of David.”
“Then ye did not dream at all, lass,” he said, with his brown eyes burning.
“No, Dan, I have not seen my man as yet.”
Old Ursula came to the door of the cottage at the moment with a broom in her brown fists, looking for all the world like an old witch. She gave Dan a glare from her bright eyes, and scolded Bess for going out into the snow in her best shoes.