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Page 32
The room in which she now sat was delightful. Everything was white, from
the curtains of the bed to the chintz hangings on the walls. A rug of
white fur was on the floor. The panellings and wooden shutters of the
windows were painted white. The fireplace was set in glossy-white tiles,
and its opening covered with a screen of white feathers. The windows
were flung wide, and a great flood of white sunlight came pouring into
the room. Lloyd herself was dressed in white, from the clean, crisp
scarf tied about her neck to the tip of her canvas tennis shoes. And in
all this array of white only the dull-red flame of her high-piled
hair--in the sunshine glowing like burnished copper--set a vivid note of
colour, the little strands and locks about her neck and ears coruscating
as the breeze from the open windows stirred them.
The morning was veritably royal--still, cool, and odorous of woods and
cattle and growing grass. A great sense of gayety, of exhilaration, was
in the air. Lloyd was all in tune with it. While she wrote her left
elbow rested on the table, and in her left hand she held a huge, green
apple, unripe, sour, delicious beyond words, and into which she bit from
time to time with the silent enjoyment of a school-girl.
Her letter was to Hattie's father, Mr. Campbell, and she wrote to ask if
the little girl might not spend a week with her at Bannister. When the
letter was finished and addressed she thrust it into her belt, and,
putting on her hat, ran downstairs. Lewis had brought the dog-cart to
the gate, and stood waiting in the road by Rox's head. But as Lloyd went
down the brick-paved walk of the front yard Mrs. Applegate, who owned
the farmhouse, and who was at once Lloyd's tenant, landlady,
housekeeper, and cook, appeared on the porch of the house, the head of a
fish in her hand, and Charley-Joe, the yellow tomcat, at her heels,
eyeing her with painful intentness.
"Say, Miss Searight," she called, her forearm across her forehead to
shade her eyes, the hand still holding the fish's head, "say, while
you're out this morning will you keep an eye out for that dog of
our'n--you know, Dan--the one with liver'n white spots? He's run off
again--ain't seen him since yesterday noon. He gets away an' goes off
fighting other dogs over the whole blessed county. There ain't a dog big
'r little within ten mile that Dan ain't licked. He'd sooner fight than
he would eat, that dog."
"I will, I will," answered Lloyd, climbing to the high seat, "and if I
find him I shall drag him back by the scruff of his neck. Good-morning,
Lewis. Why have you put the overhead check on Rox?"
Lewis touched his cap.
"He feels his oats some this morning, and if he gets his lower jaw agin'
his chest there's no holding of him, Miss--no holding of him in the
world."
Lloyd gathered up the reins and spoke to the horse, and Lewis stood
aside.
Rox promptly went up into the air on his hind legs, shaking his head
with a great snort.
"Steady, you old pig," said Lloyd, calmly. "Soh, soh, who's trying to
kill you?"
"Hadn't I better come with you, Miss?" inquired Lewis anxiously.
Lloyd shook her head. "No, indeed," she said decisively.
Rox, after vindicating his own independence by the proper amount of
showing off, started away down the road with as high an action as he
could command, playing to the gallery, looking back and out of the tail
of his eye to see if Lewis observed what a terrible fellow he was that
morning.
"Well, of all the critters!" commented Mrs. Applegate from the porch.
But Charley-Joe, with an almost hypnotic fixity in his yellow eyes, and
who during the last few minutes had several times opened his mouth wide
in an ineffectual attempt to mew, suddenly found his voice with a
prolonged and complaining note.
"Well, heavens an' airth, take your fish, then!" exclaimed Mrs.
Applegate suddenly, remembering the cat. "An' get off'n my porch with
it." She pushed him away with the side of her foot, and Charley-Joe,
with the fish's head in his teeth, retired around the corner of the
house by the rain barrel, where at intervals he could be heard growling
to himself in a high-pitched key, pretending the approach of some
terrible enemy.
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