“But I will have a second look at her, uncle, though the skies fall,” answered the young man, as, wheeling his horse round, he deliberately galloped back to the bend in the avenue, by which she had been hidden from his view.
He had scarcely reached the desired point, when he suddenly recoiled to find the object of his pursuit standing motionless just beyond, with eyes averted to the backward path—her glance consequently encountering his own, the very moment when he discovered her. A deep crimson, visible even where he stood, suffused her cheeks when she beheld him; and without acknowledging the second bow which the traveller made, she somewhat haughtily averted her head with a suddenness which shook her long and raven tresses entirely free of the net-work which confined them.
“A proud gipsy!” muttered the youth as he rode back to his uncle—“just such a spirit as I should like to tame.” He took especial care, however, that this sentiment did not reach the ears of his senior.
“Well?” said the latter, inquiringly, at his approach.
“I am right after all, uncle:—the wench is no better than the rest. A heavy bulk that seemed dignified only because she is too fat for levity. She walks like a blind plough-horse in a broken pasture, up and down, over and over; with a gait as rigid and deliberate as if she trod among the hot cinders, and had corns on all her toes. She took us so by surprise that if we had not thought her beautiful we must have thought her ugly, and the chances are equal, that, on a second meeting, we shall both think her so. I shall, I'm certain, and you must, provided you give your eyes the benefit, and your nose the burden of your green specs.”
“Impossible! I can scarce believe it, Warham,” replied the senior. “I thought her very beautiful.”
“I shall never rely on your judgment again;—nay, uncle, I am almost inclined to suspect your taste.”
“Well, let them be beautiful or ugly, still I should think the same of the beauty of this village.”
“While the sun shines it may be tolerable; but, uncle, in wet bad weather—it must become a mere pond, it lies so completely in the hollow of the hills.”
“There is reason in that, Warham.”