From it her flying feet had carried her into his life--past it,
the same feet had carried her out again. It had been their
trysting place--had kept their secrets like a faithful friend and
had stood to him as the changeless symbol of their love. It had
stood a mute but sympathetic witness of his hopes, his despairs
and the struggles that lay between them. In dark hours it had been
a silent comforter, and in the last year it had almost come to
symbolize his better self as to that self he came slowly back. And
in the darkest hour it was the last friend to whom he had meant to
say good-by. Now it was gone. Always he had lifted his eyes to it
every morning when he rose, but now, next morning, he hung back
consciously as one might shrink from looking at the face of a dead
friend, and when at last he raised his head to look upward to it,
an impenetrable shroud of mist lay between them--and he was glad.
And still he could not leave. The little creek was a lashing
yellow torrent, and his horse, heavily laden as he must be, could
hardly swim with his weight, too, across so swift a stream. But
mountain streams were like June's temper--up quickly and quickly
down--so it was noon before he plunged into the tide with his
saddle-pockets over one shoulder and his heavy transit under one
arm.
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