be. "I do not think it will rain," he said.

A suspicion of laughter was lurking in his clear quiet eyes, which were
framed in heavy brown eyebrows and thick lashes. Nature, who had stinted
this man in physical strength, had fitted him out fairly well as to
figure and feature.

Susannah, vexed at his indifference, but fearing that he would retract
his unexpected permission, was again in the draught of the open door.

"Perhaps I will walk away, away into the woods and never come back; what
then?"

"Indians," suggested he, "or starvation, or perhaps wolves, Susianne."

"But I love you for not forbidding me to go, cousin Ephraim."

The smile that repaid him for his indulgence comforted him for an hour;
then a storm arose.

In the meantime Susannah had walked far. A squatter's old log-house
stood by the green roadside; the wood of the roof and walls was
weathered and silver-gray. Before it a clothes-line was stretched,
heaved tent-like by a cleft pole, and a few garments were flapping in
the wind, chiefly white, but one was vivid pink and one tawny yellow.

The nearer aspect of the log-house was squalid. An early apple-tree at
the side had shed part of its fruit, which was left to rot in the grass
and collect flies, and close to the road, under a juniper bush, the rind
of melons and potato peelings had been thrown. There was no fence; the