Whenever we rode over in that direction we saw her out among
her cattle, bareheaded and barefooted, scantily dressed in tattered
clothing, always knitting as she watched her herd. Before I knew Lena, I
thought of her as something wild, that always lived on the prairie, because
I had never seen her under a roof. Her yellow hair was burned to a ruddy
thatch on her head; but her legs and arms, curiously enough, in spite of
constant exposure to the sun, kept a miraculous whiteness which somehow
made her seem more undressed than other girls who went scantily clad. The
first time I stopped to talk to her, I was astonished at her soft voice and
easy, gentle ways. The girls out there usually got rough and mannish after
they went to herding. But Lena asked Jake and me to get off our horses and
stay awhile, and behaved exactly as if she were in a house and were
accustomed to having visitors. She was not embarrassed by her ragged
clothes, and treated us as if we were old acquaintances. Even then I
noticed the unusual colour of her eyes--a shade of deep violet--and their
soft, confiding expression.
Chris Lingard was not a very successful farmer, and he had a large family.
Lena was always knitting stockings for little brothers and sisters, and
even the Norwegian women, who disapproved of her, admitted that she was a
good daughter to her mother.
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