Then, almost simultaneously, their
attention fell upon Mary. Sitting on her little stool, her head
resting on her father's knee, and sleeping as soundly as any infant,
her breath (still like an infant's) came and went as softly as a
bird steals to her leafy nest. Her half-open mouth was as scarlet
as the winter-berries, and contrasted finely with the clear paleness
of her complexion, where the eloquent blood flushed carnation at
each motion. Her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which
was still more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that seemed
to form a nest-like pillar for her as she lay. Her father in fond
pride straightened one glossy curl, for an instant, as if to display
its length and silkiness.
The little action awoke her, and, like nine out of ten people in
similar circumstances, she exclaimed, opening her eyes to their
fullest extent--
"I'm not asleep. I've been awake all the time."
Even her father could not keep from smiling, and Job Legh and
Margaret laughed outright.
"Come, wench," said Job, "don't look so gloppened* because thou'st
fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was talking on oud times.
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