She could see
the white lilac-bush, now a mass of snowy plumes, waving in the June
breeze; she could see the road, and knew when any of the neighbors
went to town or to meeting; but the corner from which the wonderful
voice came thrilling and soaring was hidden from her.
Miss Vesta peered out between the muslin curtains. "She's sitting on
the steps," she said, "feeding the hens. It is wonderful, the way the
creatures know her! That old top-knot hen, that never has a good word
for anybody, is sitting in her lap almost. She says she understands
their talk, and I really believe she does. 'Tis certain none of them
cluck, not a sound, while she's singing. 'Tis a manner of marvel, to
my mind."
"It is so," assented Miss Rejoice, mildly. "There, sister! you said
you had never heard her sing 'Tara's Harp.' Do listen now!"
Both sisters were silent in delight. Miss Vesta stood at the window,
leaning against the frame. She was tall, and straight as an arrow,
though she was fifty years old. Her snow-white hair was brushed
straight up from her broad forehead; her blue eyes were keen and
bright as a sword. She wore a black dress and a white apron; her hands
showed the marks of years of serving, and of hard work of all kinds.
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