The hills, the massed woods, the mist opposed
their immovable front, scornfully. Margret did not notice the
silent contest until she reached the lane. The girl Lois,
sitting in her cart, was looking, attentive, at the slow surge of
the shadows, and the slower lifting of the slanted rays.
"T' mornin' comes grand here, Miss Marg'et!" she said, lowering
her voice.
Margret said nothing in reply; the morning, she thought, was gray
and cold, like her own life. She stood leaning on the low cart;
some strange sympathy drew her to this poor wretch, dwarfed,
alone in the world,--some tie of equality, which the odd childish
face, nor the quaint air of content about the creature, did not
lessen. Even when Lois shook down the patched skirt of her
flannel frock straight, and settled the heaps of corn and
tomatoes about her, preparatory for a start, Margret kept her
hand on the side of the cart, and walked slowly by it down the
road. Once, looking at the girl, she thought with a half smile
how oddly clean she was. The flannel skirt she arranged so
complacently had been washed until the colours had run madly into
each other in sheer desperation; her hair was knotted with
relentless tightness into a comb such as old women wear. The
very cart, patched as it was, had a snug, cosy look; the masses
of vegetables, green and crimson and scarlet, were heaped with a
certain reference to the glow of colour, Margret noticed,
wondering if it were accidental.
Pages:
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68