a June afternoon.

The door of the lean-to looked towards the road, and so made a kind of
front door to the kitchen which was within. The door-sill was raised a
single step above the rough old grey stone which did duty before it;
and sitting on the doorstep, in the shadow and sunlight which came
through the elm branches and fell over her, this June afternoon, was
the person whose life story I am going to try to tell. She sat there as
one at home, and in the leisure of one who had done her work; with arms
crossed upon her bosom, and an air of almost languid quiet upon her
face. The afternoon was quiet-inspiring. Genial warm sunshine filled
the fields and grew hazy in the depth of the hills; the long hanging
elm branches were still; sunlight and shadow beneath slept in each
other's arms; soft breaths of air, too faint to move the elms, came
nevertheless with reminders and suggestions of all sorts of sweetness;
from the leaf-buds of the woods, from the fresh turf of the meadows,
from a thousand hidden flowers and ferns at work in their secret
laboratories, distilling a thousand perfumes, mingled and untraceable.
Now and then the breath of the roses was quite distinguishable; and
from fields further off the delicious scent of new hay. It was just the
time of day when the birds do not sing; and the watcher at the door
seemed to be in their condition.

She was a young woman, full grown, but young. Her dress was the common
print working dress of a farmer's daughter, with a spot or two of wet
upon her apron showing that she had been busy, as her dress suggested.
Her sleeves were still rolled up above her elbows, leaving the crossed
arms full in view. And if there is character in faces, so there is in
arms; and everybody knows there is in hands. These arms were after the
model of the typical woman's arm; not chubby and round and fat, but
moulded with beautiful contour, showing muscular form and power, with
the blue veins here and there marking the clear delicate skin. Only
look at the arm, without even seeing the face, and you would feel there
was nervous energy and power of will; no weak, flabby, undecided action
would ever come of it. The wrist was tapering enough, and the hand
perfectly shaped, like the arm; not quite so white. The face,--you
could not read it at once; possibly not till it had seen a few more
years. It was very reposeful this afternoon. Yet the brow and the head
bore tokens of the power you would expect; th