It took David but a few minutes to select what articles he suspected, from her account, might be required. He hurried his preparations, and, being his own groom, stable boy, and man-of-all-work, he was very busy about it.
As a strain of music or a floating melody will linger in the background with insistent repetition, while the brain is at the same time busily occupied with surface affairs, so he found himself repeating some of her quaint phrases, and seeing her eyes—the wisps of wind-blown hair—and the smile on her lips, as she turned away, like an accompaniment to all he was thinking and doing.
Soon, equipped for whatever the emergency might demand, he was at the widow's door. His horse nickered and stretched out his nose toward Cassandra's colt as if glad to have once more a little horse companionship. Side by side they stood, with bridles slipped back and hung to their saddles, while they crunched contentedly at the corn on the ear, which Hoyle had brought them.
While at dinner, Cassandra showed David her books, pleased that he asked to see them. "I brought them to study, should I get time. It's right hard to give up hope—" she glanced at her mother and lowered her voice. "To stop—anyhow—I thought I might teach Hoyle a little."
"Ah, these are mostly school-books," he said, glancing them over.