A bird from a great oak lifted its voice. It was a happy bird and would tolerate no sadness. It caroled to its mate and to the sky and through her tears Mary Burton smiled and the gorgeous vividness of her face was illuminated.
"While we've got each other," she said, "I guess it can be June."
Suddenly she put out her slender, but strong, young hands and caught his two arms, and stood there looking at him.
"Once, dear," she said, "when I was a very little girl, I used to dream of going out and seeing all the wonderful things beyond those hills. I used to dream of having rich men and titled men come to me and make love. I used to cry because I thought I was ugly—and then I met you by the roadside—and you were my fairy prince—but I didn't guess you were going to be my own—for always."
Jefferson Edwardes smiled and into his eyes came a fervent glow.
"I can see you now," he said, "as you stood that first day I ever saw you, when I told you that your beauty would be the beauty of gorgeousness—when I warned you that the only thing you need ever fear was—the loss of your simplicity. The woods were flaming at your back, but your loveliness outblazed their color, and then you were a thin little girl—a trifle chippendale in plan."
In spite of her sadness a smile came to her lips.
"And you were fighting your fight for life—with only an even chance. Suppose—" she shuddered—"suppose you had lost it!"
"I had too much to live for," he assured her. "I couldn't lose it. You and your hills gave me life and a dream, and you and your hills laid their claim upon me. How could I lose?"
"I've lain awake at night," said Mary Burton, as her long lashes drooped with the confession of her heart. "I've lain awake at night wondering if—now that you don't have to stay—if your own world won't call you back—away from me. I've thought of all it holds for you—and how little these mountains hold. I've wondered if your heart didn't ache for foreign lands and wonderful cities—and all those things. If it does, dear—" she paused and said very seriously—"you mustn't let me keep you here. I belong here, but you—" The words fell into a faint note and died away unfinished.