And
still, in spite of her new feathers and airs and graces, there was
in her eye and in her laugh and in her moods all the subtle wild
charm of the child in Lonesome Cove. It was fairy-time for June
that summer, though her father and Bud had gone West, for her
step-mother was living with a sister, the cabin in Lonesome Cove
was closed and June stayed at the Gap, not at the Widow Crane's
boarding-house, but with one of Hale's married friends on Poplar
Hill. And always was she, young as she was, one of the merry
parties of that happy summer--even at the dances, for the dance,
too, June had learned. Moreover she had picked up the guitar, and
many times when Hale had been out in the hills, he would hear her
silver-clear voice floating out into the moonlight as he made his
way toward Poplar Hill, and he would stop under the beeches and
listen with ears of growing love to the wonder of it all. For it
was he who was the ardent one of the two now.
June was no longer the frank, impulsive child who stood at the
foot of the beech, doggedly reckless if all the world knew her
love for him. She had taken flight to some inner recess where it
was difficult for Hale to follow, and right puzzled he was to
discover that he must now win again what, unasked, she had once so
freely given.
Pages:
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261