That
day, in his working clothes, he had looked what he was, a strong and
honest young farmer. To-day, in his Sunday broadcloth, with a brilliant
blue neck scarf, a brass horseshoe pin, and a large bunch of primroses
in his button-hole, he looked a blot, an excrescence, on the sunny
earth. Personally, he might have been tall, but for a pronounced stoop;
fair, but that he was burnt brick colour; smooth-faced, but for the
multitude of lines and furrows, resulting from long exposure to the open
air. His voice I couldn't help admitting was melodious and manly, yet
the moment he caught sight of me he shuffled his feet like an idiot, and
blushed like a girl. He whispered something to his companion, dropped
over the stile like a stone from a catapult, and vanished from view.
Annie advanced to meet me, blushing sweetly. She had put a finishing
touch to the magenta costume by a large pink moss rosebud. She looked at
it with admiration.
"Me and my young man have changed nosegays," she remarked simply; "he
asked me to give him my primroses, and he gave me this. They do grow
beautiful roses up at Fuller's.
Pages:
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192