She looked very
distinguished, as she rode slowly toward me, her long skirt hanging
below her feet, one knee crooked about the saddle horn, the other in the
stirrup. I had not seen a woman riding thus since the time I had watched
them sweeping along in all their style in Albany or Buffalo. She came up
to me and stopped, looking at me without a word.
"Why of all things!" I said. "Rowena, is this you!"
"What's left of me," said she.
I stood looking at her for a minute, thinking of what her father and
mother had said, and finally trying to figure out what seemed to be a
great change in her. There was something new in her voice, and her
manner of looking at me as she spoke; and something strange in the way
she looked out of her eyes. Her face was a little paler than it used to
be, as if she had been indoors more; but there was a pink flush in her
cheeks that made her look prettier than I had ever seen her. Her eyes
were bright as if with tears just trembling to fall, rather than with
the old glint of defiance or high spirits; but she smiled and laughed
more than ever I had seen her do. She acted as if she was in high
spirits, as I have seen even very quiet girls in the height of the fun
and frolic of a dance or sleigh-ride. When she was silent for a moment,
though, her mouth drooped as if in some sort of misery; and it was not
until our eyes met that the laughing expression came over her face, as
if she was gay only when she knew she was watched.
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