In spite of this precaution he had once seen her
driving in a pony carriage, but so smartly and fashionably dressed
that he drew back in the cover of a wayside willow that she might pass
without recognition. He looked down upon his red-splashed clothes
and grimy, soil-streaked hands, and for a moment half hated her. His
comrades seldom spoke of her--instinctively fearing some temptation that
might beset his Spartan resolutions, but he heard from time to time that
she had been seen at balls and parties, apparently enjoying those very
frivolities of her sex she affected to condemn.
It was a Sabbath morning in early spring that he was returning from an
ineffectual attempt to enlist a capitalist at the county town to redeem
the fortunes of Blazing Star. He was pondering over the narrowness of
that capitalist, who had evidently but illogically connected Cass's
present appearance with the future of that struggling camp, when he
became so foot-sore that he was obliged to accept a "lift" from a
wayfaring teamster. As the slowly lumbering vehicle passed the new
church on the outskirts of the town, the congregation were sallying
forth. It was too late to jump down and run away, and Cass dared not
ask his new-found friend to whip up his cattle. Conscious of his unshorn
beard and ragged garments, he kept his eyes fixed upon the road. A voice
that thrilled him called his name. It was Miss Porter, a resplendent
vision of silk, laces, and Easter flowers--yet actually running,
with something of her old dash and freedom, beside the wagon.
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