Marcia Schuyler - Grace Livingston Hill - Bog

The sun was already up and the grass blades were twinkling with sparkles of dew, as Marcia stepped from the kitchen door. She wore a chocolate calico with little sprigs of red and white scattered over it, her hair was in smooth brown braids down her back, and there was a flush on her round cheeks that might have been but the reflection of the rosy light in the East. Her face was as untroubled as the summer morning, in its freshness, and her eyes as dreamy as the soft clouds that hovered upon the horizon uncertain where they were to be sent for the day.