“Then incline thine ear. I would I were the ruler of a savage tribe, in the heart of far-away New Zealand, shut in by towering mountains from the outer world.”
“But why spend all one’s days in a valley?”
“Oh, well, if you’re going in for a valley, why not have a good one?”
She throws herself down beside him on the grass and clasps her arms about his neck. “You foolish boy; you don’t know what you want.”
“Don’t I?” He draws the glowing face to his and kisses it.
The two are idling in a grassy nook on the slope of one of Vermont’s green hills, sheltered by a clump of spruce from observation and the slanting rays of the sun.
There is an infinite calm in the late spring air, and the golden afternoon drifts by on lazy pinions. Away in the west, across the vale, the main spur of the Green Mountain range awaits the last pencilings of the low-descending sun. Southward Wild River sings its way through buttercup and daisy flecked meadows; to the north the smoke from the chimneys of Raymond blurs the lines of as fair a landscape as earth can boast.
Derrick Ames pulls his hat over his eyes, stretches himself on the greensward and gazes long and lovingly at his companion. The fair face, browned by many rambles among the hills; the rippling hair, tumbled in confusion about mischievous and laughter-laden brown eyes; the rounded arms; the slim, girlish figure, about which even the coarse dress donned for mountain climbing falls in graceful lines; the dainty feet and the perfectly turned ankles, make a picture for an artist.
She picked up the book which lies open upon the grass and glances over its pages, dreamily.
The sun goes down in a golden haze, and still the lovers tarry in their sylvan trysting-place.