She couldn't bear that compelling look of his.
"It takes so long like this," she said; "I'm going to run to the top," and she raced on before him. But even so he reached her again before the slow-moving carriage, going the long way round.
When he, too, got to the top, he saw her standing some little distance from the road on the brow of the hill, looking down upon river and town; her dress blown well back from the firmly set feet, the old velveteen jacket following—more from long habit than from excellence of cut—the slim young outlines, the shabby little hat held down upon the wind-roughened hair with one hand, the other hand thrust in a side-pocket. It was an unkempt picture of no great prettiness, and no thought of prettiness, but it gave a curious impression of eager life; a kind of dauntlessness and good faith that hit upon the heart.
"Well, America, what do you think of the prospect?" said his voice behind her.
She turned round with a bright look.
"Much more than I'm going to tell you, to be laughed at for my pains."
"Oh, well, I can see it for myself—a smoky valley, a muddy river with many bridges, some stormy-looking clouds—"
"Oh, that's not what I see."
"What then?"