Looking, she smiled,--and small wonder!
Below her, framed in green rushes, was the reflection of a high-born maiden
dressed according to her rank. Clinging silk and jewelled girdle lent new
grace to her lithesome form, while the mossy green of her velvet mantle
brought out the rich coloring of her face as leaves bring out the glowing
splendor of a rose. Gold was in the embroidery that stiffened her trailing
skirts; gold was sewn into her gloves, and golden chains twined in her
lustrous hair added to the spirited poise of her head a touch of stateliness.
No wonder that her mouth curved into a smile as she gazed.
"It cannot be denied that I look woman-like now," she murmured. "It is a great
boon for me that he likes my hair."
Then the water lost both the reflection and the face above it as a sweet voice
sounded up the bank, calling, "Randalin! Randalin!"
Picking up the branchful of scarlet berries which she had dropped, Frode's
daughter moved toward the voice. "Are they about to go, Dearwyn?" she asked
the little gentlewoman who came toward her around a hawthorn bush, lifting her
silken skirts daintily.
Dearwyn shook her head. "My lady wishes to try on you the wreath she has made.
She thinks your dark locks will set it off better than our light ones."
"I was on my way thither," Randalin said, quickening her steps.
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