There was no umbrella this morning to obscure Miss Gillespie's vivid
tints, and in the same flat, straw hat, with her cheeks framed in
little black curls, she looked a freshly wholesome young girl, who
might be dangerous to the peace of mind of men even less lonely and
susceptible than the two who bid her a flushed and bashful good
morning. She had the appearance, however, of being entirely oblivious
to any embarrassment they might show. There was not a suggestion of
coquetry in her manner as she returned their greetings. Instead, it
was marked by a businesslike gravity. Her eyes touched their faces
with the slightest welcoming light and then left them to rove, sharply
inspecting, over their wagon and animals. When she had scrutinized
these, she turned in her saddle, and said abruptly to the driver of the
six mules:
"Daddy John, do you see--horses?"
The person thus addressed nodded and said in a thin, old voice,
"I do, and if they want them they're welcome to them."
He was a small, shriveled man, who might have been anywhere from sixty
to seventy-five. A battered felt hat, gray-green with wind and sun,
was pulled well down to his ears, pressing against his forehead and
neck thin locks of gray hair.
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