To
think of her was to get good-humoured; to speak of
her was to raise the image of a dried Normandy
pippin.
"Stop your scrubbing a moment." said Bathsheba
through the door to her. "I hear something."
Maryann suspended the brush.
The tramp of a horse was apparent, approaching the
front of the building. The paces slackened, turned in
at the wicket, and, what was most unusual, came up
the mossy path close to the door. The door was
tapped with the end of a crop or stick.
"What impertinence!" said Liddy, in a low voice.
"To ride up the footpath like that! Why didn't he
stop at the gate? Lord! 'Tis a gentleman! I see the
top of his hat."
"Be quiet!" said Bathsheba.
The further expression of Liddy's concern was con-
tinued by aspect instead of narrative.
"Why doesn't Mrs. Coggan go to the door?" Bath-
sheba continued.
Rat-tat-tat-tat, resounded more decisively from Bath-
sheba's oak.
"Maryann, you go!" said she, fluttering under the
onset of a crowd of romantic possibilities.
"O ma'am -- see, here's a mess!"
The argument was unanswerable after a glance at
Maryann.
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