In the moist earth beside the bench Anthony saw the print of a
dainty boot, no longer than his palm, and he promptly fell into a
rhapsody. What tiny hands and feet she had, to be sure, and such a
sweetly melancholy face! Yet she was anything but grave and
gloomy. Why, the sunlight dancing on that waterfall was no more
mischievous and merry than she. The slight suggestion of sadness
she conveyed was but the shadow of the tropic mystery or the
afterglow of the tragedy that had played so large a part in this
country's history. The fact that she was half American perhaps
accounted for her daring, yet, whatever the other strain, it could
not be ignoble. Mrs. Cortlandt's figure of the silver threads in a
rotting altar-cloth recurred to him with peculiar force.
But why didn't she come? A sudden apprehension overtook him, which
grew and grew as the afternoon wore away.
It was a very miserable young man who wandered out through the
fragrant path, as the first evening shadows settled, and bent his
dejected steps toward the city. Evidently something had occurred
to prevent her keeping her tryst, but he determined to return on
the morrow, and then if she did not come to follow that other path
right up to the house, where he would risk everything for a word
with her.
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