"There!" she cried triumphantly. "That's the way to drink. All my life I've done this way at this spring—when there wasn't anyone to see."
Mason felt a wild charm in this. Most other women would have tumbled to pieces doing such a thing, while she sprang up a little flushed, but with no other sign of exertion.
There was something primeval, elemental, in being thus led by a beautiful woman through coverts of ferns and hazel. Every shadow seemed to wash away some stain or scar of the city's strife. He grew younger.
"I almost like this sort of thing," he said.
They came at last to the smooth slope of the peak where grass stood tall in bunches on a gravelly soil, and wild flowers of unusual kinds grew. As they mounted now, the landscape broke over the tree tops, and the valleys curved away into silent blue mist.
On every side low wooded ridges lay, with farms spread like rugs half-way up their deep green clearings. On the further slope a pasture came nearly to the summit, and the tinkle of a bell among the bushes sounded a pastoral note. A field of timothy farther on to the left glowed with a beautiful pink-purple bloom.
"Isn't it beautiful," asked Rose.
Mason dropped full length on the grass before replying.
"Yes, it is lovely—perfectly pastoral. Worthy a poem."
"I've written three, right on this spot," she said a little shyly.