“Therefore, when I say Paul,” she added, “I do it because I like you, and because I believe in you, and not because I think you perfect.”
She lifted the rickety old gate with care, and he closed it after them; then they walked out over the dank leaves, through the brilliant coloring of the forest. The day was soft and tempting, while a mellow haze filled the air.
“I am going to show you the prettiest spot in all the world,” said Dorothy, “a place where I often go and sit alone.”
They walked side by side, there being no longer any path, or, if there had been one, it was now covered, and the sunlight, filtering through the tree-tops, fell in brilliant patches upon the gaudy carpet beneath their feet. They had walked a mile, when Paul heard the murmur of distant water, and saw that they were heading for a rocky gorge, through which a small stream forced its way in a jumble of tiny cataracts and pools. It was an ideal spot, shut in from all the world beyond. The restful air, barely stirring the tree-tops, and the water, as it went dripping from stone to stone, made just enough sound to intimate that the life principle of a drowsy world was existent. They seated themselves upon a rocky ledge, and Dorothy became absorbed in reverie; while Paul, from a slightly lower point, gazed up at the trees, the sky, and the girl, with mute infatuation.
“You lead such an ideal life here,” he said, after some minutes of silence, “that I should imagine the outer world would seem harsh and cold by contrast.”
“But I have never seen what you call the outer world,” she answered, with a touch of melancholy in her voice.
“Do you mean to say that you have lived here always?”
“Yes, and always shall, unless some one helps me away.”
“I don't think I quite understand,” he replied, “who could help you away, if your own people would not. Pardon the allusion, but I do not grasp the situation.”
“I could never go with any of the Guirs,” she answered, with a shudder, “for I am quite as much afraid of them as they are of me.”