They were valiant eyes,
full of spirit; eyes, also, that saw the humour of things. And her
mouth was the mouth of one who laughs easily. Her chin, small like
the rest of her, was strong; and in the way she held herself there
was a boyish jauntiness. She looked--and was--a capable little
person.
She stood besides James like a sentinel, watching over him as he
breakfasted. There was a puppy belonging to one of the neighbours
who sometimes lumbered over and stole James's milk, disposing of
it in greedy gulps while its rightful proprietor looked on with
piteous helplessness. Elizabeth was fond of the puppy, but her
sense of justice was keen and she was there to check this
brigandage.
It was a perfect day, cloudless and still. There was peace in the
air. James, having finished his milk, began to wash himself. A
squirrel climbed cautiously down from a linden tree. From the
orchard came the murmur of many bees.
Aesthetically Elizabeth was fond of still, cloudless days, but
experience had taught her to suspect them. As was the custom in
that locality, the water supply depended on a rickety windwheel.
It was with a dark foreboding that she returned to the kitchen and
turned on one of the taps. For perhaps three seconds a stream of
the dimension of a darning-needle emerged, then with a sad gurgle
the tap relapsed into a stolid inaction.
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