Лето
VI
Thesunrosewithoutacloud,andearlierthanusualshewasinthekitchen,makingcheesesandwiches,decantingbuttermilkintoabottle,wrappingupslicesofapplepie,andaccusingVerenaofhavinggivenawayabasketsheneeded,whichhadalwayshungonahookinthepassage.Whenshecameoutintotheporch,inherpinkcalico,whichhadrunalittleinthewashing,butwasstillbrightenoughtosetoffherdarktints,shehadsuchatriumphantsenseofbeingapartofthesunlightandthemorningthatthelasttraceofhermiseryvanished.Whatdiditmatterwhereshecamefrom,orwhosechildshewas,whenlovewasdancinginherveins,anddowntheroadshesawyoungHarneycomingtowardher?
Mr.Royallwasintheporchtoo.Hehadsaidnothingatbreakfast,butwhenshecameoutinherpinkdress,thebasketinherhand,helookedatherwithsurprise.“Whereyougoingto?”heasked.
“Why—Mr.Harney’sstartingearlierthanusualtoday,”sheanswered.
“Mr.Harney,Mr.Harney?Ain’tMr.Harneylearnedhowtodriveahorseyet?”
Shemadenoanswer,andhesattiltedbackinhischair,drummingontherailoftheporch.Itwasthefirsttimehehadeverspokenoftheyoungmaninthattone,andCharityfeltafaintchillofapprehension.Afteramomenthestoodupandwalkedawaytowardthebitofgroundbehindthehouse,wherethehiredmanwashoeing.
