Chapter 16 - Page 2

little woman had she let her
frock down. In appearance indeed the Painted Lady resembled her plain
daughter not at all, but in manner in a score of ways, as when she
rocked her arms joyously at sight of a fresh bud or tossed her brown
hair from her brows with a pretty gesture that ought, God knows, to have
been for some man to love. The watchers could not hear what she and
Grizel said, but evidently it was pleasant converse, and mother and
child, happy in each other's company, presented a picture as sweet as it
is common, though some might have complained that they were doing each
other's work. But the Painted Lady's delight in flowers was a scandal in
Thrums, where she would stand her ground if the roughest boy approached
her with roses in his hand, and she gave money for them, which was one
reason why the people thought her daft. She was tending her flowers now
with experienced eye, smelling them daintily, and every time she touched
them it was a caress.

The watchers retired into the field to compare impressions, and Elspeth
said emphatically, "I like her, Tommy, I'm not none fleid at her."

Tommy had liked her also, but being a man he said, "You forget that
she's an ill one."

"She looks as if she didna ken that hersel'," answered Elspeth, and
these words of a child are the best picture we can hope to get of the
Painted Lady.

On their return to the window, they saw that Grizel had finished her
ca'ming and was now sitting on the floor nursing a doll. Tommy had not
thought her the kind to shut her eyes to the truth about dolls, but she
was hugging this one passionately. Without its clothes it was of the
nine-pin formation, and the painted eyes and mouth had been incorporated
long since in loving Grizel's system; but it became just sweet as she
swaddled it in a long yellow frock and slipped its bullet head into a
duck of a pink bonnet. These articles of attire and the others that you
begin with had all been made by Grizel herself out of the colored
tissue-paper that shopkeepers wrap round brandy bottles. The doll's name
was Griselda, and it was exactly six months old, and Grizel had found
it, two years ago, lying near the Coffin Brig, naked and almost dead.

It was making the usual fuss at having its clothes put on, and Grizel
had to tell it frequently that of all the babies--which shamed it now
and again, but kept her so occupied that she forgot her mother. The
Painted Lady had sunk into the rocking-chair, and for a time she amused
herself with it, but by and by it ceased to rock, and as she sat looking
straight before her a change came over her face. Elspeth's hand
tightened its clutch on Tommy's; the Painted Lady had begun to talk to
herself.