His keen eyes foresaw more of the story the woman was
to tell presently than either of the women of his household. He had seen
many such women as this, and had inflexibly judged between them and those
who had wronged them.
"Where have you come from?" he asked, as the meal drew to a close.
"From Wind River and under Elk Mountain," the woman answered with a look
of relief. Her face was of those who no longer can bear the soul's
secrets.
There was silence while the breakfast things were cleared away, and the
window was thrown wide to the full morning sun. It broke through the
branches of pine and cedar and juniper; it made translucent the leaves of
the maples; it shimmered on Fleda's brown hair as she pulled a rose from
the bush at the window, and gave it to the forlorn creature in the grey
"linsey-woolsey" dress and the loose blue flannel jacket, whose skin was
coarsened by outdoor life, but who had something of real beauty in the
intense blue of her eyes. She had been a very comely figure in her best
days, for her waist was small, her bosom gently and firmly rounded, and
her hands were finer than those of most who live and work much in the
open air.
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