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“I done it like hern,” she began, and stopped suddenly to look up at him. “You know her,” she added; “they’re at Harney’s. Father said ye’d went to see her jest as soon as ye got here.”

“I know her,” was his short reply.

He picked up the drinking-gourd and turned away.

“Good-night,” he said.

“Good-night.”

At the top of the rocky incline he looked back at her.

She was kneeling upon the brink of the spring, her sleeve pushed up to her shoulder, her hand and arm in the water, dipping for the fragment of looking-glass.

It was really not wholly inconsistent that he should not directly describe the interview in his next meeting with his betrothed. Indeed, Rebecca was rather struck by the coolness with which he treated the subject when he explained that he had seen the girl and found her beauty all it had been painted.

“Is it possible,” she asked, “that she did not quite please you?”

“Are you sure,” he returned, “that she quite pleases you?”

Rebecca gave a moment to reflection.

“But her beauty”–she began, when it was over.

“Oh!” he interposed, “as a matter of color and curve and proportion she is perfect; one must admit that, however reluctantly.”

Rebecca laughed.

“Why ‘reluctantly?'” she said.

It was his turn to give a moment to reflection.

His face shadowed, and he looked a little disturbed.

“I don’t know,” he replied at length; “I give it up.”

He had expected to see a great deal of the girl, but somehow he saw her even oftener than he had anticipated. During the time he spent in the house, chance seemed to throw her continually in his path or under his eye. From his window he saw her carrying water from the spring, driving the small agile cow to and from the mountain pasturage, or idling in the shade. Upon the whole it was oftener this last than any other occupation. With her neglected knitting in her hands she would sit for hours under a certain low-spreading cedar not far from the door, barefooted, coarsely clad, beautiful,–every tinge of the sun, every indifferent leisurely movement, a new suggestion of a new grace.

It would have been impossible to resist the temptation to watch her; and this Lennox did at first almost unconsciously. Then he did more. One beautiful still morning she stood under the cedar, her hand thrown lightly above her head to catch at a bough, and as she remained motionless, he made a sketch of her. When it was finished he was seized with the whimsical impulse to go out and show it to her.

She took it with an uncomprehending air, but the moment she saw what it was a flush of triumph and joy lighted up her face.

“It’s me,” she cried in a low, eager voice. “Me! Do I look like that thar? Do I?”

“You look as that would look if it had color, and was more complete.”

She glanced up at him sharply.

“D’ye mean if it was han’somer?”

He was tempted into adding to her excitement with a compliment.

“Yes,” he said, “very much handsomer than I could ever hope to make it.”

A slow, deep red rose to her face.

“Give it to me!” she demanded.

“If you will stand in the same position until I have drawn another–certainly,” he returned.

He was fully convinced that when she repeated the attitude there would be added to it a look of consciousness.

When she settled into position and caught at the bough again, he watched in some distaste for the growth of the nervously complaisant air, but it did not appear. She was unconsciousness itself.

It is possible that Rebecca Noble had never been so happy during her whole life as she was during this one summer. Her enjoyment of every wild beauty and novelty was immeasurably keen. Just at this time to be shut out, and to be as it were high above the world, added zest to her pleasure.

“Ah,” she said once to her lover, “happiness is better here–one can taste it slowly.”