She seemed
older--much older.
Somehow, all at once there came into my mind the memory of the woman
away back there in Buffalo, who had taken me, a sleepy, lonely,
neglected little boy, to her room, put me to bed, and been driven from
the fearful place in which she lived, because of it. I have finally
thought of the word to describe what I felt in both these
cases--desperation; desperation, and the feeling of pursuit and flight.
I did not even feel all this as I stood looking at Rowena, sitting on
her horse so prettily that summer day at my farm; I only felt puzzled
and a little pitiful for her--all the more, I guess, because of her nice
clothes and her side-saddle.
"Well, Mr. Vandemark," said she, finally, "I don't hear the perprietor
of the estate say anything about lighting and stayin' a while.' Help me
down, Jake!"
I swung her from the saddle and tied her horse. I stopped to put a
halter on him, unsaddle him, and give him hay. I wanted time to think;
but I do not remember that I had done much if any thinking when I got
back to the house, and found that she had taken off her long skirt and
was sitting on the little stoop in front of my door. She wore the old
apron, and as I came up to her, she spread it out with her hands to call
my attention to it.
"You see, Jake, I've come to work. Show me the morning's dishes, an'
I'll wash 'em. Or maybe you want bread baked? It wouldn't be breakin'
the Sabbath to mix up a bakin' for a poor ol' bach like you, would it?
I'm huntin' work.
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