Sophy loved this letter, for among other things, it reassured her about their friendship. It made her feel in many ways that he was too fine not to have realized that there could be no more love in her life and too strong to sacrifice their beautiful friendship to a vain desire something that could never be. She spent a solacing hour in writing him a letter such as she felt he would love to receive—all about her home, herself, her daily doings, her dog, her horse ... some of her inmost thoughts that she felt he would understand and share with her.
The end of September had been chilly, but October came in with soft, spring-like showers again, very mild—real May weather—rather like Indian Spring than Indian Summer. On the second day the showers held about noon. Harold Grey set off with the whole "bunch" of boys for a long-promised jaunt. They were to ride up to the top of Laurel Mountain and spend the night there in an old rubble hut, sleeping on pine boughs. There was to be a camp-fire, they were to cook their own meals. Off they went, all on horseback, laughing and singing:
"Ole ark a-movin', movin', chillun!"
Sophy watched Bobby as he rode off on the old Shelty, his face a-shine, and again she felt that it was all worth while if Bobby were so blissfully content. He had never worn that shining face in Newport or New York. That afternoon she went out to look for mushrooms. This was surely ideal mushroom weather. She put on an old corduroy skirt, and stout boots, and borrowed a little basket from Mammy Nan.
A great west wind had suddenly sprung up. Wild tatters of cloud were blown across the sky. Now they veiled, now they revealed the sun. The box hedges glittered darkly, waving their sombre plumes to and fro, up and down. The grass glinted like yellow crystal as the sun caught it. Leaves scurried in flocks through the air. The wet clay was just the colour of a sweating sorrel horse.
Sophy went down to the pasture behind the stable. There were cattle grazing there—a fine black Angus bull, and his harem of forty young heifers. But she was not afraid of them—they were all very gentle, the black Pasha as well as his wives.
The field hollowed in the middle, and a little dark-red path coiled through the soaked green. Sophy dipped under the pasture-bars, and went slowly forward, looking to right and left, for the cool, fleshlike glisten of fungi.
The bull was grazing on a hill at the far end of the field. His splendid, black silhouette stood out against the grey wrack of cloud. Half of his harem grazed near. The other half had discreetly withdrawn to that part of the field where Sophy was now walking. One lovely little heifer, black and soft of pelt as a black Angora cat, regarded her musingly out of lustrous, still eyes that were heavy as with sorrow. Sophy went up to her ... put out her hand, saying: "Coo ... co-o-o...."
The heifer let her stroke her forehead, her ears—let the slim, quick hand run along her sides, play with her glossy pelt. "You sweetheart!..." said Sophy.
She was more like a calm, friendly dog than a cow. Sophy finally gave her a kiss between her tranquil, melancholy eyes, and continued on her quest for mushrooms.