Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm | Page 5

only just started on it," Mr. Cobb responded genially; "it's
more 'n two hours."
"Only two hours," she sighed "That will be half past one; mother will
be at cousin Ann's, the children at home will have had their dinner, and
Hannah cleared all away. I have some lunch, because mother said it
would be a bad beginning to get to the brick house hungry and have
aunt Mirandy have to get me something to eat the first thing.-- It's a
good growing day, isn't it?"
"It is, certain; too hot, most. Why don't you put up your parasol?"
She extended her dress still farther over the article in question as she
said, "Oh dear no! I never put it up when the sun shines; pink fades
awfully, you know, and I only carry it to meetin' cloudy Sundays;
sometimes the sun comes out all of a sudden, and I have a dreadful
time covering it up; it's the dearest thing in life to me, but it's an awful
care."
At this moment the thought gradually permeated Mr. Jeremiah Cobb's
slow-moving mind that the bird perched by his side was a bird of very
different feather from those to which he was accustomed in his daily
drives. He put the whip back in its socket, took his foot from the
dashboard, pushed his hat back, blew his quid of tobacco into the road,
and having thus cleared his mental decks for action, he took his first
good look at the passenger, a look which she met with a grave,
childlike stare of friendly curiosity.
The buff calico was faded, but scrupulously clean, and starched within
an inch of its life. From the little standing ruffle at the neck the child's
slender throat rose very brown and thin, and the head looked small to
bear the weight of dark hair that hung in a thick braid to her waist. She
wore an odd little vizored cap of white leghorn, which may either have
been the latest thing in children's hats, or some bit of ancient finery
furbished up for the occasion. It was trimmed with a twist of buff
ribbon and a cluster of black and orange porcupine quills, which hung

or bristled stiffly over one ear, giving her the quaintest and most
unusual appearance. Her face was without color and sharp in outline.
As to features, she must have had the usual number, though Mr. Cobb's
attention never proceeded so far as nose, forehead, or chin, being
caught on the way and held fast by the eyes. Rebecca's eyes were like
faith,-- "the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not
seen." Under her delicately etched brows they glowed like two stars,
their dancing lights half hidden in lustrous darkness. Their glance was
eager and full of interest, yet never satisfied; their steadfast gaze was
brilliant and mysterious, and had the effect of looking directly through
the obvious to something beyond, in the object, in the landscape, in you.
They had never been accounted for, Rebecca's eyes. The school teacher
and the minister at Temperance had tried and failed; the young artist
who came for the summer to sketch the red barn, the ruined mill, and
the bridge ended by giving up all these local beauties and devoting
herself to the face of a child,--a small, plain face illuminated by a pair
of eyes carrying such messages, such suggestions, such hints of
sleeping power and insight, that one never tired of looking into their
shining depths, nor of fancying that what one saw there was the
reflection of one's own thought.
Mr. Cobb made none of these generalizations; his remark to his wife
that night was simply to the effect that whenever the child looked at
him she knocked him galley-west.
"Miss Ross, a lady that paints, gave me the sunshade," said Rebecca,
when she had exchanged looks with Mr. Cobb and learned his face by
heart. "Did you notice the pinked double ruffle and the white tip and
handle? They're ivory. The handle is scarred, you see. That's because
Fanny sucked and chewed it in meeting when I wasn't looking. I've
never felt the same to Fanny since."
"Is Fanny your sister?"
"She's one of them."
"How many are there of you?"
"Seven. There's verses written about seven children:--
"`Quick was the little Maid's reply, O master! we are seven!'
I learned it to speak in school, but the scholars were hateful and
laughed. Hannah is the oldest, I come next, then John, then Jenny, then
Mark, then Fanny, then Mira."

"Well, that IS a big family!"
"Far too big, everybody says," replied Rebecca with an unexpected and
thoroughly grown-up candor that induced Mr. Cobb to murmur, "I
swan!" and insert more tobacco in his left cheek.
"They're dear,