To think of her was to get good-humoured; to speak of her was to raise the image of a dried Normandy pippin.
"Stop your scrubbing a moment," said Bathsheba through the door to her.

"I hear something." Maryann suspended the brush.
The tramp of a horse was apparent, approaching the front of the building.

The paces slackened, turned in at the wicket, and, what was most unusual, came up the mossy path close to the door.

The door was tapped with the end of a crop or stick.
"What impertinence!" said Liddy, in a low voice.

"To ride up the footpath like that! Why didn't he stop at the gate?
Lord! 'Tis a gentleman! I see the top of his hat." "Be quiet!" said Bathsheba.
The further expression of Liddy's concern was continued by aspect instead of narrative.
"Why doesn't Mrs.Coggan go to the door ?" Bath-sheba continued.
Rat-tat-tat-tat resounded more decisively from Bath-sheba's oak.
"Maryann, you go!" said she, fluttering under the onset of a crowd of romantic possibilities.
"Oh ma'am--see, here's a mess!" The argument was unanswerable after a glance at Maryann.
"Liddy--you must," said Bathsheba.
Liddy held up her hands and arms, coated with dust from the rubbish they were sorting, and looked imploringly at her mistress.
"There--Mrs.Coggan is going!" said Bathsheba, exhaling her relief in the form of a long breath which had lain in her bosom a minute or more.
The door opened, and a deep voice said-- "Is Miss Everdene at home ?" "I'll see, sir," said Mrs.Coggan, and in a minute appeared in the room.
"Dear, what a thirtover place this world is!" continued Mrs.Coggan (a wholesome-looking lady who had a voice for each class of remark according to the emotion involved; who could toss a pancake or twirl a mop with the accuracy of pure mathematics, and who at this moment showed hands shaggy with fragments of dough and arms encrusted with flour).