The Dewy Morn by Richard Jefferies

"You will not have a rise," said Shaw. " 'Tis too bright. Let me come and tickle them; the water's low. " She would have pulled off her shoes and stockings and tickled the trout under the stones in high delight if Felise had permitted. They were standing in the porch, Felise with her fly-rod; Shaw just touching her here and there to complete her toilet, as an artist adds little touches daintily after the picture is finished. Felise had lately been singularly particular about her dress when she went trout-fishing. There was something of a set, preoccupied expression on her face.

On the contrary, Shaw's round rosy countenance was full of change, lively, with some sly humour. Her blue eyes sparkled; her brown hair was disordered with work and hurry; her neck, without a collar, was soft, white, round -- these peasant girls often have good necks; her figure plump, so that hooks and eyes were constantly bursting. She loved her mistress dearly, and yet almost feared her. Shaw's was one of those faces that prepossess at once, so sweet, good-natured, and happy.