"She is beautiful and kind."

"So?"

The geese were behaving, and only occasionally was she obliged to use
her stick. And as her companion asked no more questions, she devoted her
attention to the flock, proud of their broad backs and full breasts.

On his part, he observed her critically, for he was more than curious
now, he was interested. She was not tall, but her lithe slenderness gave
her the appearance of tallness. Her hands, rough-nailed and sunburnt,
were small and shapely; the bare foot in the wooden shoe might have worn
without trouble Cinderella's magic slipper. Her clothes, coarse and
homespun, were clean and variously mended. Her hair, in a thick braid,
was the tone of the heart of a chestnut-bur, and her eyes were of that
mystifying hazel, sometimes brown, sometimes gray, according to whether
the sky was clear or overcast. And there was something above and beyond
all these things, a modesty, a gentleness and a purity; none of the
bold, rollicking, knowing manner so common in handsome peasant girls. He
contemplated her through half-closed eyes and gave her in fancy the
tariffing furbelows of a woman of fashion; she would have been
beautiful.

"How old are you, Gretchen?"

"I do not know," she answered, "perhaps eighteen, perhaps twenty."

Again they went forward in silence. By the time they reached the gates
the sun was no longer visible on the horizon, but it had gone down ruddy
and uncrowned by any cloud, giving promise of a fair day on the morrow.