Jonas, who always
took a hopeful view of everything, even of Sara's contrariness.
But she felt discouraged, too. Well, she had done her best.
If Lige Baxter's broth was spoiled it was not for lack of cooks.
Every Andrews in Avonlea had been trying for two years to bring
about a match between him and Sara, and Mrs. Jonas had borne her
part valiantly.
Mrs. Eben's despondent reply was cut short by the appearance of
Sara herself. The girl stood for a moment in the doorway and
looked with a faintly amused air at her aunts. She knew quite
well that they had been discussing her, for Mrs. Jonas, who
carried her conscience in her face, looked guilty, and Mrs. Eben
had not been able wholly to banish her aggrieved expression.
Sara put away her books, kissed Mrs. Jonas' rosy cheek, and sat
down at the table. Mrs. Eben brought her some fresh tea, some
hot rolls, and a little jelly-pot of the apricot preserves Sara
liked, and she cut some more fruit cake for her in moist plummy
slices. She might be out of patience with Sara's "contrariness,"
but she spoiled and petted her for all that, for the girl was the
very core of her childless heart.
Sara Andrews was not, strictly speaking, pretty; but there was
that about her which made people look at her twice. She was very
dark, with a rich, dusky sort of darkness, her deep eyes were
velvety brown, and her lips and cheeks were crimson.
She ate her rolls and preserves with a healthy appetite,
sharpened by her long walk from Newbridge, and told amusing
little stories of her day's work that made the two older women
shake with laughter, and exchange shy glances of pride over her
cleverness.
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