He would play with the poor little thing and reassure her.
"Now that I look at you I see what you are. You're not a human at all.
You're a spirit of something or other--probably of one of those perky
mountains over yonder. The White Maid, I bet! You had to don my clothes
in order to materialize before my eyes and you had to use that word of
the hills--so that I could understand you. It's quite plain now and you
are welcome to my--my bath robe; I dare say that, underneath it, you are
decked out in filmy clouds and vapours and mists. Oh! come now--" The
strange eyes were filling--but not overflowing!
"I was only joking. Forgive me. Why--"
The wretched fez fell from the soft hair--the bedraggled robe from the
rigid shoulders--and there, garbed in a rough home-spun gown, a little
plaid shawl and a checked apron, stood--
"It's the no-count," thought Truedale. Aloud he said, "Nella-Rose!"
With the dropping of the disguise years and dignity were added to the
girl and Truedale, who was always at his worst in the presence of
strange young women, gazed dazedly at the one before him now.
"Perhaps"--he began awkwardly--"you'll sit down. Please do!" He drew a
chair toward her. Nella-Rose sank into it and leaned her bowed head upon
her arms, which she folded on the table. Her shoulders rose and fell
convulsively, and Truedale, looking at her, became hopelessly wretched.
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