A cloth lay spread over the floor at her feet, and each moment
the pile of feathers upon it increased as the plucker worked with rhythmic
regularity and sang to herself the while.
Mary Chirgwin was a dark, good-looking girl, with a face in which strong
character appeared too prominently shadowed to leave room for absolute
beauty. But her features were regular if swarthy; her eyes were splendid,
and her brow, from which black hair was smoothly and plainly parted away,
rose broad and low. There was nothing to mark kinship between the cousins
save that both held their heads finely and possessed something of the same
distinction of carriage. Mary was eight-and-twenty, and, whatever might be
thought about her face, there could be but one opinion upon her feminine
splendor of figure. Her broad chest produced a strange speaking and singing
voice--mellow as Joan's, but far deeper in the notes. Mary gloried in
congregational melodies, and those who had not before heard her efforts at
church on Sundays would often mistake her voice for a man's. She was
dressed in print with a big apron overall; and her sleeves, turned up to
her elbows, showed a pair of fine arms, perfect as to shape, but brown of
color as the woman's face.
Joan stood motionless, then her cousin looked round suddenly and started
almost out of her chair at a sight so unexpected. But she composed herself
again instantly, put down the semi-naked fowl and came forward.
Pages:
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245