Of purest Saxon type was she. One might have guessed
that some strain of blood from the Heptarchy had been
handed onward through the centuries, unalloyed with any
Celtic or Norinan addition. So did not the aboriginal Dan-
monii look; for the women who herded in the old granite
lodges aforetime and logged the stoneman's babies in a wolf-
skin, were swarthy and small. Sarah Jane stood five feet ten,
and was fair of face. Her hair shone of the palest gold that a
woman's hair can be; her skin was white. Only the summer
snns and the wind from the ocean warmed it to clear redness.
When winter came again and the light was low, her face
grew pale once more. But pallid it was not. Health shone in
tier radiant blue eyes and on her lips. She revealed great
riches of natural beauty, but they were displayed to no arti-
ficial advantage, and her generous breast and stately hips
went uncontrolled. She was clad in a dirty print gown, over
which, for apron, hung an old sack with ^Amicombe Peat-
works^ stamped in faded black letters across it. Her sleeves
were rolled up; her hair was wild about her nape«

80



30 THE WHIRLWIND

Mr. Friend had found Daniel to his taste, for a steadfast
listener always cheered him and made him amiable.
"This be Mr. Daniel Brendon," he said. "He*m working to
Ruddyf ord, and comes up with a message. Give us a drink o'
cider."

Sarah nodded, cast a swift glance at the laborer, and re-
turned to her house.
