"Is that Harry Arnold?"
"'Tain't no one else."
Emily remembered how his expression had changed when he recognized the lady in peril as "Rosalie," and felt like asking the farmer if he knew her. But Griggs (she now learned his name) was prosing on about his new barn, and she relapsed into silence. The rest of their road was an avenue of elms. Through their interstices smiled the calm blue of the late afternoon sky, tempered by contrast with the green of the foliage. It was the first time she had ever observed this rare harmony of colors.
"Woa! There!" said Griggs. "I'll set you daown here. The Arnolds' house is up yonder over the hill. They ain't p'ticler friends of aours, but the help come over and buy wife's cream."
"Have they a girl in help named Bertha Lund?"
"I s'pose wife knows the women-folks. I don't," replied the old man, energetically reaching for his rake.
"A new servant, this is."
As if to answer her question, there came a loud bark from the little woody knoll on the right of the road, and a great St. Bernard came bounding down. It was Sire, who had recognized Emily. She knew that he had been left in Bertha's charge and probably the housemaid was behind him.
"Sire! Sire!" her cheerful voice was heard calling through the stillness. How fresh she looked with her soft country bloom and a golden tan.
"Is it you, Miss Barlow?" cried Bertha, opening her eyes in amazement. A cream pitcher in one hand revealed her errand, but Farmer Griggs was already half-way to his new barn, which lay fifty yards off the left of the road.