Her first thought was of the weather, for
Harney had asked her to take him to the brown house under Porcupine,
and then around by Hamblin; and as the trip was a long one they were to
start at nine. The sun rose without a cloud, and earlier than usual she
was in the kitchen, making cheese sandwiches, decanting buttermilk into
a bottle, wrapping up slices of apple pie, and accusing Verena of having
given away a basket she needed, which had always hung on a hook in the
passage. When she came out into the porch, in her pink calico, which had
run a little in the washing, but was still bright enough to set off
her dark tints, she had such a triumphant sense of being a part of the
sunlight and the morning that the last trace of her misery vanished.
What did it matter where she came from, or whose child she was, when
love was dancing in her veins, and down the road she saw young Harney
coming toward her?
Mr. Royall was in the porch too. He had said nothing at breakfast, but
when she came out in her pink dress, the basket in her hand, he looked
at her with surprise.
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