She gazed
through everything, and beyond. She was young--eighteen or so.
Hilton raised his hat, and courteously called a good-morning at her. She
did not reply by any word, but nodded quaintly, and blinked seriously and
yet blithely on him. He was preparing to dismount. As he did so he
paused, astonished that she did not speak at all. Her face did not have
a familiar language; its vocabulary was its own. He slid from his horse,
and, throwing his arm over its neck as it stooped to the spring, looked
at her more intently, but respectfully too. She did not yet stir, but
there came into her face a slight inflection of confusion or perplexity.
Again he raised his hat to her, and, smiling, wished her a good-morning.
Even as he did so a thought sprung in him. Understanding gave place to
wonder; he interpreted the unusual look in her face.
Instantly he made a sign to her. To that her face responded with a
wonderful speech--of relief and recognition. The corners of her apron
dropped from her fingers, and the yellow may-apples fell about her feet.
She did not notice this. She answered his sign with another, rapid,
graceful, and meaning. He left his horse and advanced to her, holding
out his hand simply--for he was a simple and honest man. Her response to
this was spontaneous. The warmth of her fingers invaded him.
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