The Old Faithful has been talked about, written about, and visited so much and so long, that there remains nothing fresh to be said; but it is like any other classic,—perennial, exhilarating, and satisfying.
Mrs. Bruce, despite the fly in her amber, approached the mound of geyserite with lively anticipation, and watched with absorption the first spasmodic spurts that were flung from the crater’s mouth.
Later, when the splendid volume of hot water sprang skyward, she and Betsy both forgot that there was a bone of contention between them. For minutes the rushing giant fountain, falling in a cloud of foam and spray, held itself against the azure sky; then, like a beautiful captive returning to its dungeon, fell back lower and lower, till only its tears coursed down the terraces they had formed, and lay in shallow basins, whose lovely tints they did not conceal.
Mrs. Bruce, feeling that she could suggest nothing that would improve this glorious ebullition, confined herself to exclamations.
“What a blessing there is a moon!” she said, as they turned back toward the hotel. “I can hardly wait for to-night. Where do you suppose the Nixons are? and that poor little Miss Maynard? If Mr. Derwent is making her write his letters instead of coming out here, I think it’s a perfect shame.”
“Sh! sh! Madama,” said Irving. “Let everybody be innocent until he’s proved guilty. Go into the house now and lie down, and let the world go wrong for a little while.”
“I can’t quite make Miss Maynard out, Irving. I tried to talk with her a number of times on our drive this afternoon, because I must say Mrs. Nixon is so very quiet I feel sorry for the girl; but she always was abstracted, and every time I spoke to her she seemed to have to bring her thoughts back from somewhere.”
“From him, perhaps,” suggested Irving.
“Well, perhaps so. I never thought of that.” Mrs. Bruce shook her head. “Deliver me from sightseeing with a girl who is in love!”