For two years he had seen no one like the girl of the cove,none--though he had seen women and girls of the settlements,often enough--who even suggested her kind.Her dress,indeed,was plain enough,and obviously chosen in cheerful ignorance of forms and conventions,though the color,a delicate pink,was all he could have wished.After all,the clothes revealed nothing except absence from city shops and city standards.
That was wonderful hair,its brown tresses gleaming though untouched by the sun,as if in it were enmeshed innumerable particles of light.It seemed to glow from its very fineness,its silkiness--the kind of hair one is prompted to touch,to feel if it is really that way!The face was more wonderful,because it told many things that can not be expressed in mere hair-language.There was the seal of innocence on the lips,the proof of fearlessness in the eyes,the touch of thought on the brow,the sign of purpose about the resolute little chin.The slender brown hands spoke of life in the open air,and the glow of the cheeks told of burning suns.Her form,her attitude,spoke not only of instinctive grace,but of a certain wildness in admirable harmony with the surrounding scene.Somehow,the ruggedness of the mountains and the desolate solitudes of the plains were reflected from her face.