"Now its harshness has vanished and it has grown beautiful. When it lies under the moonlight it is steeped in glamour and mystery. Even the tiny grasses make elfin music when everything is still. I came out at sunrise this morning when a faint breeze got up and listened to them."
"Ah!" exclaimed Thorne softly, "it is only a few who can hear that music at all, and those, I think, must have it in their hearts already. It is a sign that you belong to the wilderness and it has laid its claim on you."
Alison smiled.
"Now that I have learned to know it, a fondness for the wilderness has crept into my blood; but, after all, your views are narrow; you don't go quite far enough. I think one could sometimes hear the music I spoke of in the noisy cities. Only, as you say, it must be in one's heart already."
Thorne looked down at her with a glow in his eyes.
"Ours are in unison."
"No," protested Alison, smilingly, "I think we should not benefit if that were possible. The most we can look for is a complex harmony. In the strain humanity raises there must be many different notes and many different parts."
Thorne laughed rather strangely as, with a little instinctive movement, he straightened himself.
"But the same insistent throb in all that is worth listening to."
"Ah!" murmured the girl; "then you recognized the note of unrest and endeavor, though you tried to shut your ears?"