And, still
as it was she was greatly pleased.
At four o'clock she started for the hills. In half an hour she was
dropping down a winding ravine along a rock-lashing stream with
those hills so close to the car on either side that only now and
then could she see the tops of them. Through the window the keen
air came from the very lungs of them, freighted with the coolness
of shadows, the scent of damp earth and the faint fragrance of
wild flowers, and her soul leaped to meet them. The mountain sides
were showered with pink and white laurel (she used to call it
"ivy") and the rhododendrons (she used to call them "laurel") were
just beginning to blossom--they were her old and fast friends--
mountain, shadow, the wet earth and its pure breath, and tree,
plant and flower; she had not forgotten them, and it was good to
come back to them. Once she saw an overshot water-wheel on the
bank of the rushing little stream and she thought of Uncle Billy;
she smiled and the smile stopped short--she was going back to
other things as well. The train had creaked by a log-cabin set in
the hillside and then past another and another; and always there
were two or three ragged children in the door and a haggard
unkempt woman peering over their shoulders.
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