That Girl of Johnson's — page 145: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

134 THAT GIRL OF JOHNSON’S. gence; her mouth was large and stolid, after the manner of her parents, but it was fresh and red as a cherry. Her arms were bare to the elbows and red from rough work and exposure to wind and sun, but they were plump and round, with a hint of dimples at the elbows. Dr. Dunwiddie stood in the doorway smiling to himself at the girl’s half defiant singing, his eyes on the low, un. painted house just up the rugged road, with the rickety fence around it, and the faint curl of smoke stealing up from the crumbling chimney. Dolores stepped out on the door- stone with the milk pail on her arm, the chickens flocking around her; her head was bare, and the sunlight fell on it caressingly. The house was in full view of the tavern, though the road curved twice between them, and the bushes along the roadside were thick and high. Dolores called to Brindle, and the cow came obediently out of her shed. When she was milked, and the pail car- ried into the pantry, Dolores went out to the well and drew water for the cow; she fed the chickens and pig, and paused in the sunny door-way. Her work for the day was finished, and she lingered idly. The pines stirred up on the banks beside her, and she lifted her face to the odorous wind stealing through the thick branches. The chickens picked among the pine needles, strewn like a carpet over the grass, as they strayed out through the underbrush to the slope beyond. Brindle was browzing with deep, con- tented breathing and an occasional tinkle of her new bell along the roadside, her lean sides fairly steaming in the warmth of the rising sun. The mist was breaking up, and wavering, floating away from the opposite mountain, leaving in distinct outlines against the blue of the heavens, the ragged ledges and rocks, and lofty, pine-crowned .sum- mit. Even the gleam of the river was visible down in the valley, as it wound along at the foot of the mountain, shouting in turbulent voices. Dr. Dunwiddie, standing in the door-way of the tavern, with the sound of Cinthy’s singing in his ears, inhaling Gomicbooks (e(@)