Viola Gwyn | Page 9

amply able to pay for lodging and food, Mr. Striker,
so do not hesitate to--"
"Save your breath, stranger. I'm as deef as a post. The storm's goin' to
bust in two shakes of a dead lamb's tail, so you'd better be a leetle spry
if you want to git inside afore she comes."

With that he entered the barn door, leading the horses. Gwynne and his
servant hurried through the darkness toward the light in the kitchen
window. The former rapped politely on the door. It was opened by Mrs.
Striker, a tall, comely woman well under thirty, who favoured the
good-looking stranger with a direct and smileless stare. He removed his
tall, sorry-looking beaver.
"Madam, your husband has instructed my servant to leave our
belongings in your kitchen. I fear they are not overly clean, what with
mud and rain, devil-needles and burrs. Your kitchen is as clean as a pin.
Shall I instruct him to return with them to the barn and--"
"Bring them in," she said, melting in spite of herself as she looked
down from the doorstep into his dark, smiling eyes. His strong, tanned
face was beardless, his teeth were white, his abundant brown hair
tousled and boyishly awry,--and there were mud splashes on his cheek
and chin. He was tall and straight and his figure was shapely, despite
the thick blue cape that hung from his shoulders. "I guess they ain't any
dirtier than Phin Striker's boots are this time o' the year. Put them over
here, boy, 'longside o' that cupboard. Supper'll be ready in ten or fifteen
minutes, Mr. Gwynne."
His smile broadened. He sniffed gratefully. A far more exacting woman
than Eliza Striker would have forgiven this lack of dignity on his part.
"You will find me ready for it, Mrs. Striker. The smell of side-meat
goes straight to my heart, and nothing in all this world could be more
wonderful than the coffee you are making."
"Go 'long with you!" she cried, vastly pleased, and turned to her
sizzling skillets.
Zachariah deposited the saddle-bags and rolls in the corner and then
returned to the door where he received the long blue cape, gloves and
the towering beaver from his master's hands. He also received
instructions which sent him back to open a bulging saddle-bag and
remove therefrom a pair of soft, almost satiny calf-skin boots. As he
hurried past Mrs. Striker, he held them up for her inspection, grinning

from ear to ear. She gazed in astonishment at the white and silver
ornamented tops, such as were affected by only the most fastidious
dandies of the day and were so rarely seen in this raw, new land that the
beholder could scarce believe her eyes.
"Well, I never!" she exclaimed, and then went to the sitting-room to
whisper excitedly to the solitary occupant, who, it so chanced, was at
the moment busily and hastily employed in rearranging her brown,
wind-blown hair before the round-topped little looking-glass over the
fireplace.
"I thought you said you wasn't goin' to see him," observed Mrs. Striker,
after imparting her information. "If you ain't, what are you fixin'
yourself up fer?"
"I have changed my mind, Eliza," said the young lady, loftily. "In the
first place, I am hungry, and in the second place it would not be right
for me to put you to any further trouble about supper. I shall have
supper with the rest of you and not in the bedroom, after all. How does
my hair look?"
"You've got the purtiest hair in all the--"
"How does it look?"
"It would look fine if you NEVER combed it. If I had hair like your'n,
I'd be the proudest woman in--"
"Don't be silly. It's terrible, most of the time."
"Well, it's spick an' span now, if that's what you want to know,"
grumbled Eliza, and vanished, fingering her straight, straw-coloured
hair somewhat resentfully.
Meanwhile, Kenneth Gwynne, having divested himself of his dark blue
"swallow-tail," was washing his face and hands at the well. The settler
approached with the lantern.

"She's comin'," he shouted above the howling wind. "I guess you'd
better dry yourself in the kitchen. Hear her whizzin' through the trees?
Gosh all hemlock! She's goin' to be a snorter, stranger. Hurry inside!"
They bolted for the door and dashed into the kitchen just as the deluge
came. Phineas Striker, leaning his weight against the door, closed it and
dropped the bolt.
"Whew! She's a reg'lar harricane, that's what she is. Mighty suddent,
too. Been holdin' back fer ten minutes,--an' now she lets loose with all
she's got. Gosh! Jest listen to her!"
The hiss of the torrent on the clapboard roof was deafening, the little
window panes were streaming; a dark, glistening shadow crept out
from the bottom of the door