shadows than the mountain cast.

As he passed he caught her attention, and stepping toward him a
little impatiently, she said,

"I suppose you belong to the premises?"

He made an awkward attempt at a bow, and said stiffly, "I'm one of
the Atwood chattels."

The answer was not such as she expected, and she gave him a
scrutinizing glance. "Surely, if I have ever seen a laborer, he's
one," she thought, as with woman's quickness she inventoried his
coarse, weather-stained straw hat, blue cotton shirt crossed by
suspenders mended with strings, shapeless trousers, once black,
but now of the color of the dusty cornfield, and shoes such as she
had never seen on the avenue. Even if Roger's face had not been
discolored by perspiration and browned by exposure, its contrast
with the visage that memory kept before her but too constantly
would not have been pleasing. Nothing in his appearance deterred
her from saying briefly, "I wish you would bring those trunks to
our rooms. We have already waited for them some little time, and
Mr. Atwood said that his man would attend to them when he came home
from his work."

"That's all right, but I'm not his man, and with another stiff bow
he passed on.

"Roger," called Mrs. Atwood from the kitchen door, "where's Jotham?"