“Mrs. Gamadge, that woman’s there again.”
Clara looked up from the letter she was writing to her husband. Long shadows from the trees across the road came up the slope of the yard, up to the very edge of the narrow porch on which she was sitting, her feet in rough grass. Clara’s face was rosy in the evening light; but the elderly maid, who stood under the branches of a maple at the corner of the cottage, had not all her customary high color.
Clara herself was disquieted, but she had adopted an attitude, and was maintaining it. “Up on the ridge?” she asked, with what seemed no more than mild curiosity.
“Ma’am, she’s come down the hill. She’s halfway to our wall.”
“Then she’s on her way here, and we’ll find out who she is, ” said Clara, cheerfully.
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