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Fox, John, 1863-1919

"The Trail of the Lonesome Pine"

Indeed, even that Bluegrass world
where she had spent a year was too narrow now for her vaulting
ambition, and with that thought she looked down again on the
little town, a lonely island in a sea of mountains and as far from
the world for which she had been training herself as though it
were in mid-ocean. Live down there? She shuddered at the thought
and straightway was very miserable. The clear piping of a wood-
thrush rose far away, a tear started between her half-closed
lashes and she might have gone to weeping silently, had her ear
not caught the sound of something moving below her. Some one was
coming that way, so she brushed her eyes swiftly with her
handkerchief and stood upright against the tree. And there again
Hale found her, tense, upright, bareheaded again and her hands
behind her; only her face was not uplifted and dreaming--it was
turned toward him, unstartled and expectant. He stopped below her
and leaned one shoulder against a tree.
"I saw you pass the office," he said, "and I thought I should find
you here."
His eyes dropped to the scattered playhouse of long ago--and a
faint smile that was full of submerged sadness passed over his
face.


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