"Hello, Tony. Don't you know me?" she asked in a smooth, low voice,
looking in at us archly.
Antonia gasped and stepped back. "Why, it's Lena! Of course I did n't know
you, so dressed up!"
Lena Lingard laughed, as if this pleased her. I had not recognized her for
a moment, either. I had never seen her before with a hat on her head--or
with shoes and stockings on her feet, for that matter. And here she was,
brushed and smoothed and dressed like a town girl, smiling at us with
perfect composure.
"Hello, Jim," she said carelessly as she walked into the kitchen and
looked about her. "I've come to town to work, too, Tony."
"Have you, now? Well, ain't that funny!" Antonia stood ill at ease, and
did n't seem to know just what to do with her visitor.
The door was open into the dining-room, where Mrs. Harling sat crocheting
and Frances was reading. Frances asked Lena to come in and join them.
"You are Lena Lingard, are n't you? I've been to see your mother, but you
were off herding cattle that day. Mama, this is Chris Lingard's oldest
girl."
Mrs. Harling dropped her worsted and examined the visitor with quick, keen
eyes. Lena was not at all disconcerted. She sat down in the chair Frances
pointed out, carefully arranging her pocketbook and gray cotton gloves on
her lap. We followed with our popcorn, but Antonia hung back--said she had
to get her cake into the oven.
Pages:
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151