Flannel of domestic manufacture, pressed till you could almost see
your face in it, stood instead of the French woollen fabric of modern
days. It left the jimp little waist as round and definite as the eye
could ask, while the full flow of the skirt exposed the neat foot,
deftly incased in stout Jefferson shoes. A plaited lawn, technically
termed a "modesty-piece," was folded over the bosom, and concealed
all but the upper part of the throat. Above that rose a face full of
delicacy and healthy sweetness. Eyes full of sparkles, and dimples
all about the cheeks, chin, and rather large mouth. Youth, and the
radiance of a happy, unconscious nature, of the capabilities or
possibilities of which she was as ignorant as the robin on the branch
above her, whose evening song had just closed, and who has just shut
his coquettish eyes.
A minute more, and Swan sprang over the stone wall, and with three
steps was standing by her. He stood still and looked at her, drawing
deep breaths of haste and agitation.
Dorcas spoke first.
"You wanted to see me. What is the matter?"
"Nothing,--but--you know I've got home."
"Why, yes, that is clear," answered Dorcas, mischievously, and
entirely easy herself, now that she saw Swan's cheeks aflame, and his
voice choking so he could not speak.
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