Rose of Old Harpeth

Rose of Old Harpeth, by Maria
Thompson Daviess

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Title: Rose of Old Harpeth
Author: Maria Thompson Daviess
Release Date: February 28, 2005 [EBook #15195]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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OLD HARPETH ***

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ROSE OF OLD HARPETH
[Illustration: Rose Mary]

ROSE OF
OLD HARPETH
BY MARIA THOMPSON DAVIESS
Author of "Miss Selina Lue," "The Road to Providence," "The Melting
of Molly," etc.
[Illustration]
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
By W.B. KING
A.L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
1911
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

I DEDICATE
ROSE MARY
TO MY MOTHER
LEONORA HAMILTON DAVIESS
AND THE WHOLE BOOK
TO MY GRANDMOTHER
MARIA THOMPSON DAVIESS

ROSE OF OLD HARPETH
CHAPTER I
ROSE MARY OF SWEETBRIAR
"Why, don't you know nothing in the world compliments a loaf of
bread like the asking for a fourth slice," laughed Rose Mary as she
reached up on the stone shelf above her head and took down a large
crusty loaf and a long knife. "Thick or thin?" she asked as she raised
her lashes from her blue eyes for a second of hospitable inquiry.
"Thin," answered Everett promptly, "but two with the butter sticking
'em together. Please be careful with that weapon! It's as good as a
juggler's show to watch you, but it makes me slightly--solicitous." As
he spoke he seated himself on the corner of the wide stone table as near
to Rose Mary and the long knife as seemed advisable. A ray of sunlight
fell through the door of the milk-house and cut across his red head to
lose itself in Rose Mary's close black braids.
"Make it four," he further demanded over the table.
"Indeed and I will," answered Rose Mary delightedly. And as she spoke
she held the loaf against her breast and drew the knife through the
slices in a fascinatingly dangerous manner. At the intentness of his
regard the color rose up under the lashes that veiled her eyes, and she
hugged the loaf closer with her left hand. "Would you like six?" she
asked innocently, as the fourth stroke severed the last piece.
"Just go on and slice it all up," he answered with a laugh. "I'd rather
watch you than eat."
"Wait till I butter these for you and then you can eat--and watch
me--me finish working the butter. Won't that do as well? Think what an
encouragement your interest will be to me! Really, nothing in the world
paces a woman's work like a man looking on, and if he doesn't stop her

she'll drop under the line. Now, you have your bread and butter and you
can sit over there by the door and help me turn off this ten pounds in no
time."
As she had been speaking, Rose Mary had spread two of the slices with
the yellow butter from a huge bowl in front of her, clapped on the tops
of the sandwiches and then, with a smile, handed them in a blue plate to
the man who lounged across the corner of her table. She made a very
gracious and lovely picture, did Rose Mary, in her light-blue homespun
gown against the cool gray depths of the milk-house, which was
fern-lined along the cracks of the old stones and mysterious with the
trickling gurgle of the spring that flowed into the long stone troughs,
around the milk crocks and out under the stone door-sill. From his post
by the door Everett watched her as she drove her paddle deep into the
hard golden mound in the blue bowl in front of her, and, with a quick
turn of her strong, slender wrist slapped and patted chunk after chunk
of the butter into a more compressed form. The sleeves of her dress
were rolled almost to her shoulders and under the white, moist flesh of
her arms the fine muscles showed plainly. The strong curves of her
back and shoulders bent and sprung under the graceful sweep of her
arms and her round breasts rose and fell with quickened breath from
her energetic movements.
"Now, you're making me work too hard," she laughed; and she panted
as she rested her hand for a second against the edge of the bowl and
looked up at Everett from under a black tendril curl that had fallen
down across her forehead.
"Miss Rose Mary Alloway, you