Hollister could hear the whine of
sawmills, the rumble of trolley cars, the clang of steel in a great
shipyard,--and the tide whispering on wet sands at his feet, the birds
twittering among the budding alders. And far as his eyes could reach
along the coast there lifted enormous, saw-toothed mountains. They
stood out against a sapphire sky with extraordinary vividness, with
remarkable brilliancy of color, with an austere dignity.
Hollister put his arm around the girl. She nestled close to him. A
little sigh escaped her lips.
"What is it, Doris?"
"I was just remembering how I lay awake last night," she said,
"thinking, thinking until my brain seemed like some sort of machine
that would run on and on grinding out thoughts till I was worn out."
"What about?" he asked.
"About you and myself," she said simply. "About what is ahead of us. I
think I was a little bit afraid."
"Of me?"
"Oh, no," she tightened her grip on his hand. "I can't imagine myself
being afraid of _you_. I like you too much. But--but--well, I was
thinking of myself, really; of myself in relation to you.
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