At last they were all safely through and the gate closed. In a few moments, the bleating was over. The sheep were contentedly munching the lush grass.
"They are like people. A moment ago and they seemed really to have some definite point of view. They wanted to do something. And now, they've forgotten what it was. They'll eat the meadow flat and then the dogs and the shepherd will drive them on, and they'll rebel and yield and eat another meadow flat—and go on—and on."
Anne patted his hand, resting on her breast. Roger was always seeing things so, analogies between animals and mountains and trees and people. Nothing was just itself to Roger, but always a picture of something else. It made Anne very tender and filled her with the same sense of deep protectiveness that a child's belief in fairies does; a gladness, touched faintly with wistful envy and regret that faith must go.
As they sat down to breakfast they realized a new feeling of bustle and industry in the air. The sheep had come. Soon tourists would follow. Automobiles would pass, meals would be called for at all hours. The rancher and his wife talked of rooms to be opened, supplies brought up from cellars, bedding aired. Roger and Anne sat silent, as silent as the dark Indian girl who served them.
The rancher ate quickly and went. In a moment his wife followed. They crossed the rear yard and disappeared in a storehouse. Roger looked at Anne and sighed.
"I suppose it's the end. The place will be all cluttered up with people soon."
"I suppose it will. It's been perfect, hasn't it?"
Roger's hand moved over and took hers. "Absolutely perfect. We——"
A note so clear, so sweet, so rounded that it seemed to be the spirit of the earth slipping into sound, stole into the room.
"Oh!" Anne whispered and held fast to Roger's hand.