A Country Cousin
tograph!" she cried. "It's all right, Michael. We thought you were lost, Cousin Sarah. I'm Ethel. How do you do?"
"I'm well, thank you; how are you?"
Not that she needed to ask. Ethel's bronzed cheeks and firm muscular grasp would have done credit to a boy of her own sixteen years. As they threaded their way to the carriage, Sarah studied her curiously—she was very different from her cousin's idea of a city girl. Her long straight hair, though it was fresh and glossy, was guiltless of any attempt at curl or wave, and hung in a thick, evenly plaited tail below her waist. Between the tops of her low-heeled, broad-soled walking-shoes—low ties, though it was well through October—and the stitching of her heavy dark walking-skirt her ankles were plainly to be seen, and the felt walking-hat had not even a quill or wing to boast of; she might have been a little girl of twelve, as far as her dress was concerned, thought the visitor.
What Ethel's impressions were, she did not imply by so much as a glance. That
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