de do.” It was only in a kind of unconscious deference to her own appearance that I had not done so. She was unkempt and ragged—her sleeve was torn from cuff to elbow.
“What you doing here?” I inquired, not averse to breaking the business of calling by a bit of gossip.
At this she did for the third time what I had been vaguely conscious of her having done: She glanced over her shoulder toward a corner of the yard which the piled wood concealed from me. I stepped forward and looked there.
On an end of wood-pile which we children had pulled down so as to make a slope to ascend its heights, a man was sitting. His head and shoulders were drooping, his legs were relaxed, and his hands were hanging loose, as if they were heavy. His eyes were closed and his lips were parted, yet about the face, with its fair hair and beard, there was something singularly attractive and gentle. He looked like a man who would tell you a story.
“Who’s he?” I asked, and involuntarily I whispered.
The girl began backing a little away from me, her eyes on my face, her finger on her lips.
