I did
want it, being indeed not far short of filthy.
Perhaps I hurried unexpectedly. At any rate, on returning I found
Mistress Waynflete bending over something on the hearth. Straightening
herself hastily, and with a pretty confusion, at my approach, she cried,
"Oh, Master Oliver, the ham was burning, and you threatened my share of
it, you know!"
I could not reply. Down to her hips her rich amber hair flowed like a
bridal veil, and from amid a wealth of snowy lace, fluttering on the orbed
glory of perfect womanhood, her neck rose smooth and stately as a shaft of
alabaster. Her cheeks crimsoned with maiden shamefastness, but the blue
eyes met mine without a hint of maiden fear, and for that thanks as well
as reverence filled my heart as I bowed to her. Maidenlike, she drew her
golden veil more closely over her bosom, and tripped back to finish her
toilet, leaving me amated and abashed by the vision I had beheld. I think
it was from that moment that my joy in my work began to be mingled with
the despair of my love. Certainly it was a chastened Oliver Wheatman who
placed a chair for her when she came in again for breakfast, and helped
her to the good things a kindly fortune had provided.
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