She was a natural-born, unconsciously
artistic, highly expert, and finished coquette. She was all this
at seventeen, and Mark at twenty-four was by no means a match for
her in this field of effort, yet!--but sometimes, in getting her
victim into the net, the coquette loses her balance and falls in
herself. There wasn't a bit of harm in Marquis de Lafayette, but
he was extremely agile in keeping out of nets!
Waitstill was restless, too, that night, although she could not
have told the reason. She opened her window at the back of the
house and leaned out. The evening was mild with a soft wind
blowing. She could hear the full brook dashing through the edge
of the wood-lot, and even the "ker-chug" of an occasional
bull-frog. There were great misty stars in the sky, but no moon.
There was no light in Aunt Abby Cole's kitchen, but a faint
glimmer shone through the windows of Uncle Bart's joiner's shop,
showing that the old man was either having an hour of peaceful
contemplation with no companion but his pipe, or that there might
be a little group of privileged visitors, headed by Jed Morrill,
busily discussing the affairs of the nation.
Waitstill felt troubled and anxious to-night; bruised by the
little daily torments that lessened her courage but never wholly
destroyed it.
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