“An old, old dream,” smiled Donald as he stretched himself painfully on the moss.
Connie sat down near him.
As always, this spot gave Donald a restful feeling. The gentle zephyrs wafted from the woods about them were somnolently delicious and the sparkling glacial stream that rippled through the glade sang its clear, sweet song. He closed his eyes wearily.
The proximity of the man she loved, lying there with his arm in a splint, his handsome face still bearing the marks of the blows he had suffered in her defence, thrilled Connie to the depths of her warm, impulsive heart. An almost overmastering desire to touch his hair possessed her.
“What would you do if you were rich, Connie?” he queried drowsily.
Connie sank back in the delicious moss and clasped her hands behind her golden head. “I’d buy a big trunk—one of that kind with the bulgy top—and I’d fill it with silks, satins, brocades, velvets and all kinds of soft frilly things. Then I’d unpack it slowly one by one and hang them up all around the room and sit down and look at them. I’d buy a great, big stone house in London, and I’d walk down the wide marble stairs, trailing a long rustling silk gown, and I’d raise my lorgnette to my eyes and say, ‘James, have the carriage at the door in half-an-hour.’ I’d have a country place in Scotland, with hundreds of dogs and horses, thousands of birds, and acres of flowers.”
She paused for a moment.
“I’d take Dad and Peggy with me everywhere I’d go,” she went on softly, “and I’d buy Dad millions of books, and for Peggy I’d buy a solid gold-mounted bridle, and lots of warm blankets for winter instead of those old sacks. I’d buy lots of good things to eat, and lots of good clothes for all the poor kiddies in the world.”
She looked up at the hills. “And six months out of every year,” she continued, “I’d live right here in these mountains and come every day and sit beside—beside—this stream.”
She raised herself slowly and looked down at Donald as he lay with closed eyes. Leaning forward until her golden curls almost brushed his dark hair, her eyes rested on a purple bruise on his brow. “And,” she finished fiercely, “I’d kill every man like Ole Hand.”