So, quietly, by and by, she slipped out of bed
and out the door to the porch. The moon was rising and the radiant
sheen of it had dropped down over the mountain side like a golden
veil and was lighting up the white rising mists that trailed the
curves of the river. It sank below the still crests of the pines
beyond the garden and dropped on until it illumined, one by one,
the dewy heads of the flowers. She rose and walked down the grassy
path in her bare feet through the silent fragrant emblems of the
planter's thought of her--touching this flower and that with the
tips of her fingers. And when she went back, she bent to kiss one
lovely rose and, as she lifted her head with a start of fear, the
dew from it shining on her lips made her red mouth as flower-like
and no less beautiful. A yell had shattered the quiet of the
world--not the high fox-hunting yell of the mountains, but
something new and strange. Up the creek were strange lights. A
loud laugh shattered the succeeding stillness--a laugh she had
never heard before in Lonesome Cove. Swiftly she ran back to the
porch. Surely strange things were happening there.
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