Caroline was on her knees before the Angora and knew nothing of the
flight of time, though it was really hardly more than a quarter of
an hour before the kitchen rivalled Luella's in neatness and the
pine table in the living-room, covered with a fresh cloth, and shiny
plated silver, only waited its host.
"Now if you'll step out and call your husband, Miss--I didn't just
get the name?" said Luella invitingly.
The girl rose from the chair where she had been sitting, motionless,
except for her eyes, which had followed every movement of the older
woman. She stood very straight and threw her head back with a
gesture almost defiant.
"My name is Dorothy Hartley," she declared, and ran abruptly out of
the cottage.
"Well, well," Luella shook her head whimsically, "she's pretty well
wrought up, isn't she? Sweet little thing, too--real loveable, I
sh'd say. It don't seem possible he'd be mean to her. But o' course
he wants his breakfast fit to eat, just the same. I put a place for
you, Car'line, 'cause I know you c'n eat, no matter what time
'tis--you're 's empty's a bag. There he comes--my, but he's
haughty! He looks like somebody in one o' those novels, don't he,
now?"
They came slowly up the path, hand in hand, like children, her gray
eyes on the ground, his black ones challenging the world.
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