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Shehadalwaysthoughtofhermotherassolongdeadastobenomorethananamelesspinchofearth;butnowitoccurredtoherthattheonce-youngwomanmightbealive,andwrinkledandelf-lockedlikethewomanshehadsometimesseeninthedoorofthebrownhousethatLuciusHarneywantedtodraw.
Thethoughtbroughthimbacktothecentralpointinhermind,andshestrayedawayfromtheconjecturesrousedbyLiffHyatt’spresence.Speculationsconcerningthepastcouldnotholdherlongwhenthepresentwassorich,thefuturesorosy,andwhenLuciusHarney,astone’sthrowaway,wasbendingoverhissketch-book,frowning,calculating,measuring,andthenthrowinghisheadbackwiththesuddensmilethathadsheditsbrightnessovereverything.
Shescrambledtoherfeet,butasshedidsoshesawhimcomingupthepastureanddroppeddownonthegrasstowait.Whenhewasdrawingandmeasuringoneof“hishouses,”asshecalledthem,sheoftenstrayedawaybyherselfintothewoodsorupthehillside.Itwaspartlyfromshynessthatshedidso:fromasenseofinadequacythatcametohermostpainfullywhenhercompanion,absorbedinhisjob,forgotherignoranceandherinabilitytofollowhisleastallusion,andplungedintoamonologueonartandlife.Toavoidtheawkwardnessoflisteningwithablankface,andalsotoescapethesurprisedstareoftheinhabitantsofthehousesbeforewhichhewouldabruptlypulluptheirhorseandopenhissketch-book,sheslippedawaytosomespotfromwhich,withoutbeingseen,shecouldwatchhimatwork,oratleastlookdownonthehousehewasdrawing.
