"
The afternoon sun was still an hour high when Kirk Anthony came
down the hill from the Garavels' home and crossed the meadow
toward the forest glade he knew so well. The grateful coolness of
evening was stealing downward, and Nature was roused from her
midday lethargy. It was the vibrant, active hour when odors are
freshest and spirits rise. The forest was noisy with the cry of
birds, and flocks of shrill-voiced paroquets raised an uproar in
the tallest trees. The dense canopy of green overhead was alive
with fluttering wings; the groves echoed to the cries of all the
loud-voiced thicket denizens. The pastured cattle, which had
sauntered forth from shaded nooks, ceased their grazing to stare
with gentle curiosity at the hurrying figure. Of course they
recognized a lover speeding to his tryst, and gave him passage,
shaking their heads at one another and wagging their ears in
knowing fashion.
He faltered a bit despite his haste, for this nook had grown
sacred to him, and even yet he felt that it was haunted. The
laughter of the waterfall helped to drown the sound of his
approach, but he surprised no dancing wood-sprites. Instead, he
saw what filled his heart with a greater gladness than he had ever
known.
Chiquita was there, huddled upon the seat where they had rested
together, one foot curled beneath her like a child, her head bowed
down disconsolately.
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