Miriam Burrell, pink-faced from the heat of
the roaring wood-stove, and smudged with flour on forehead and cheek,
lifted her apron and swung it like a flag of victory.
"I've found it," she sang triumphantly. "I've found out what was the
matter! I'd just forgotten the baking-powder, that was all! Next
time----"
Then she recognized him. With outstretched hands still clutching the
edge of her apron, she stood, almond eyes widening, and scanned him
from head to foot. Even Steve, who had been with him every moment, had
noticed the hour to hour change that had been taking place in Garry's
appearance. To the girl who had not seen him for weeks, that flushed,
self-conscious man was a different Garry than she had ever known
before. Hungrily her gaze went from open shirt to caked boots, from
steady hands to clear eyes which made her own eyes shy. And then
Miriam Burrell, cool and poised Miriam, did what many another maid in a
checkered apron has done in similar situations. She lifted that stiff
gingham to hide her unutterable happiness. But before he could speak
she found her voice; nor was it very steady, at that.
"I thought you were that party of idlers come back," she hesitated.
"How--how tanned you are becoming, Garry! I thought they--oh, I can't
tell you how glad I am to see you so--so well. I'm making biscuits for
supper--that is, I've just been practising until now.
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