“Oh, yes, I know where to find him. Shall I put on my things? One sitting, more or less—if it's going to take so very, very long—won't count, will it?”
A few moments later they had entered the park, and were sauntering down a sunlit pathway. Christine's hair glowed like a web of fine flames. Roses bloomed in her cheeks. Her eyes sparkled. She vowed that there had never before been such a delicious day. How soft the air was, and yet how crisp! How sweet it smelled! How exquisitely the leafless branches of the trees, gilded by the sunshine, were penciled against the deep blue of the sky! The sunshine transfigured every thing. What rich and varied colors it brought out upon the landscape! What reds, what purples, what yellows! Had Mr. Bacharach ever seen any thing equal to it? Was it not a keen pleasure merely to breathe, merely to exist, upon such a day? By and by they turned a corner, and came upon a bench.
“Oh,” exclaimed Christine, halting abruptly, “he's not here.”
“Who?” Elias asked.
“Why, my father.”
“Oh, to be sure; I had forgotten.”
“This is his favorite bench. He always sits here. Now, what can have become of him?”
“Perhaps he has walked on a little.”
“I suppose he has. But he can't have gone far. He never does. We'll soon overtake him.”
At the end of another quarter hour, however, they had not yet overtaken him.