“Now that I look at you I see what you are. You’re not a human at all. You’re a spirit of something or other—probably of one of those perky mountains over yonder. The White Maid, I bet! You had to don my clothes in order to materialize before my eyes and you had to use that word of the hills—so that I could understand you. It’s quite plain now and you are welcome to my—my bath robe; I dare say that, underneath it, you are decked out in filmy clouds and vapours and mists. Oh! come now—” The strange eyes were filling—but not overflowing!
“I was only joking. Forgive me. Why—”
The wretched fez fell from the soft hair—the bedraggled robe from the rigid shoulders—and there, garbed in a rough home-spun gown, a little plaid shawl and a checked apron, stood—
“It’s the no-count,” thought Truedale. Aloud he said, “Nella-Rose!”
With the dropping of the disguise years and dignity were added to the girl and Truedale, who was always at his worst in the presence of strange young women, gazed dazedly at the one before him now.
“Perhaps”—he began awkwardly—“you’ll sit down. Please do!” He drew a chair toward her. Nella-Rose sank into it and leaned her bowed head upon her arms, which she folded on the table. Her shoulders rose and fell convulsively, and Truedale, looking at her, became hopelessly wretched.
“I’m a beast and nothing less!” he admitted by way of apology and excuse. “I—I wish you could forgive me.”
Then slowly the head was raised and to Truedale’s further consternation he saw that mirth, not anguish, had caused the shaking of those deceiving little shoulders.
“Oh! I see—you are laughing!” He tried to be indignant.
“Yes.”