Nevertheless a second glance told one that there were no gaps in them,
that the farm machines kept their bright colors well under cover,
and that the garden rows were beautifully straight and clean.
An old white horse switched its sleek sides with its long
tail and drooped its untrammelled neck in front of the gate.
The wagon to which it was harnessed was new and had just been washed.
Near the gate stood a girl and boy who seemed to be mutually
studying each other's person. Decidedly the girl's slim,
light figure in its dainty frock repaid one's eyes for their trouble;
and her face, with its brilliant violet eyes, its full,
soft chin, its curling auburn hair and delicate tints,
was charming; but her brother's look was anything but approving.
His lip curled and his small gray eyes grew smaller under
his scowling brows.

"Is THAT your best suit?" said the girl.

"Yes, it is; and it's GOING to be for one while," said the boy.

It was a suit of the cotton mixture that looks like wool when it
is new, and cuts a figure on the counters of every dealer
in cheap ready-made clothing. It had been Tim Powell's best
attire for a year; perhaps he had not been careful enough of it,
and that was why it no longer cared even to imitate wool;
it was faded to the hue of a clay bank, it was threadbare,
the trousers bagged at the knees, the jacket bagged at the elbows,
the pockets bulged flabbily from sheer force of habit,
although there was nothing in them.

"I thought you were to have a new suit," said the girl.