“Oh no, they wouldn’t. You’d have to modify your stride a little; but you’d negotiate it. You’re equal to anything.”
“You’re making fun of me!”
“No, I’m not. I’m in earnest. You’re the kind of American girl that can go anywhere and do anything. My sisters would mortgage their share of the golden streets for your abounding health—and so would I.”
“You are all right now,” she smiled. “You don’t look or talk as you did.”
“It’s this sunlight.” He lifted a spread hand as if to clutch and hold something. “I feel it soaking into me like some magical oil. No more moping and whining for me. I’ve proved that hardship is good for me.”
“Don’t crow till you’re out of the woods. It’s a long ride down the hill, and going down is harder on the tenderfoot than going up.”
“I’m no longer a tenderfoot. All I need is another trip like this with you and I shall be a master trailer.”
All this was very sweet to her, and though she knew they should be going, she lingered. Childishly reckless of the sinking sun, she played with the wild flowers at her side and listened to his voice in complete content. He was right. The hour was too beautiful to be shortened, although she saw no reason why others equally delightful might not come to them both. He was more of the lover than he had ever been before, that she knew, and in the light of his eyes all that was not girlish and charming melted away. She forgot her heavy shoes, her rough hands and sun-tanned face, and listened with wondering joy and pride to his words, which were of a fineness such as she had never heard spoken—only books contained such unusual and exquisite phrases.
A cloud passing across the sun flung down a shadow of portentous chill and darkness. She started to her feet with startled recollection of the place and the hour.
“We must be going—at once!” she commanded.