These two women from the fruit gardens had the golden-brown in their
faces, and their plain features were transfigured. They were walking in
the dusty road; there was as background a high, dusty hawthorn hedge
which had lost the freshness of spring and was browned by the work of
caterpillars; they were in rags and jags, their shoes had split, and
their feet looked twice as wide in consequence. Their hands were black;
not grimy, but absolutely black, and neither hands nor necks ever knew
water, I am sure. There was not the least shape to their garments; their
dresses simply hung down in straight ungraceful lines; there was no
colour of ribbon or flower, to light up the dinginess. But they had the
golden-brown in their faces, and they were beautiful.

The feet, as they walked, were set firm on the ground, and the body
advanced with measured, deliberate, yet lazy and confident grace;
shoulders thrown back--square, but not over-square (as those who have
been drilled); hips swelling at the side in lines like the full bust,
though longer drawn; busts well filled and shapely, despite the rags and
jags and the washed-out gaudiness of the shawl. There was that in their
cheeks that all the wealth of London could not purchase--a superb health
in their carriage princesses could not obtain. It came, then, from the
air and sunlight, and still more, from some alchemy unknown to the
physician or the physiologist, some faculty exercised by the body,
happily endowed with a special power of extracting the utmost richness
and benefit from the rudest elements. Thrice blessed and fortunate,
beautiful golden-brown in their cheeks, superb health in their gait, they
walked as the immortals on earth.

As they passed they regarded me with bitter envy, jealousy, and hatred
written in their eyes; they cursed me in their hearts. I verily
believe--so unmistakably hostile were their glances--that had opportunity