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It meant unheard-of wealth to this childish soul of sixteen; it filled her with delight, and, carefully put away in a little gingham bag, it lay golden and warm now against her heart. But Anne's honest little heart had another and less selfish cause for rejoicing.
He's pointin' to a display of checked gingham frocks, blue and white and pink and white, with hats to match. "Yes," says I, "do look sort of familiar, don't they?" "Why," he goes on, "they're almost exactly like those of of Lucy's; the same simple lines, the same material and everything." "Classy stuff," says I. "Come along, though. The picture place is next door, upstairs."
As he passed the shed an Indian in dirty overalls and gingham shirt craned his neck around the doorway and watched him malevolently; but Pink, sighting the green patch and remembering their dire need of water, was kicking his horse into a trot and never once thought to cast an eye over his shoulder. In that arid land, where was green vegetation you may be sure there was water also.
Watching her patient closely for a moment, Aunt Libby moved noiselessly to the window, pulled down the shade, pushed the chair against it so the breeze might not disturb it, left the room. As she turned in the narrow hallway her gingham skirt brushed the crouching form of Joe, who had been waiting at his sister's door, but the aged lady did not know it.
Barnes' snowy wash was flapping in the wind, and she had slipped on her clean gingham, and stepped over to Mrs. Lewis' a minute, to have the minute lengthen to an hour or more, they had so much in common to talk about. Their absent Lord His work, and how to further it, were themes they did not weary of. So Mrs.
Tip says she has a be-yutiful figger. There's nothin' like figger. If there's anythin' I hate to see it's a first-class gingham fittin' a woman like it was hung there to air. But about Tip's wife agin she must have a lovely disposition?" "Splendid," I said. "That's what Tip says.
Fear, which within her was always latent, always too ready to influence her by masquerading as caution, stirred now. For almost an hour she stood, balancing her field glasses across her saddle, eyes focused on the open cabin door. Nothing stirred there. At last, with a slight shiver, she opened her saddle bags and drew out the dress she meant to wear a dingy, earth-colored thing of gingham.
She was past forty by that time, and her youth had slipped by in that back room with its dingy wallpaper covered with paper patterns. On the day after the arrival of the roomer, Harriet Kennedy came down to breakfast a little late. Katie, the general housework girl, had tied a small white apron over her generous gingham one, and was serving breakfast.
This is also the clothing of her husband and children; a bright gingham handkerchief is folded inside her dress, and her rich dark hair is smoothly braided.
She carried a well-preserved bandbox, the outlines were perfect under its checked gingham cover, and had a large bundle beside, securely rolled in a newspaper. From her dress I felt sure that she had made a mistake in dates, and expected winter to set in at once. Her face was crimson with undue warmth, and what appeared in the end to have been unnecessary haste.
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