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Harvest by Mrs. Humphry Ward
page 34 of 280 (12%)
cheeks, sandy hair, and a perpetual friendly grin, which generally served
her instead of speech, at least in her employer's presence. She was a
capital milker, and a good honest child. Her people lived in the village,
and her forebears had always lived there. They were absolutely indigenous
and autochthonous--a far older Brookshire family than any of the dwellers
in the big houses about.

Then in the midst of a loving report by Betty on the virtues and docility
of a beautiful Jersey cow who was the pride of Miss Henderson's new herd,
Janet Leighton remembered one of her letters of the evening and drew it
out of her pocket.

"Who do you think is going to be--is already--the commandant of the
timber girls in the new camp?"

Rachel couldn't guess.

"You remember Mrs. Fergusson--at College?"

Rachel raised her eyebrows.

"The Irish lady? Perfectly."

"Well, it's she. She writes to me to say she is quite settled, with
thirty girls, that the work is fascinating, and they all love it, and you
and I _must_ go over to see her."

Rachel looked irresponsive.

"It's a long way."
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