The quick carmine stained her cheeks. She lifted the blue flowers and held them, plucking nervously at the petals. Then she looked up at me, and uttered something like a little cry of scorn. “Why, it’s a painter’s paradise—in spite of the loneliness that abounds! Can’t you see that?”
“I can see that, of course,” I answered.
“And I am an artist. So you are answered. Years ago, with my father, who had mining interests in this section, I spent one whole summer on the Swiftwater, painting. Since then I have hungered to get back to this adorable river country. I have always wanted a painting retreat in this marvelous lake-jeweled meadow-land, where the mountains shift and merge their colors, and the rivers have such cameo-like reflections. No matter where I may wander,” she went on with enthusiasm, “I shall always be glad of this place of inspiration to work in and dream in—I don’t look upon it as a permanent habitation, simply as a delightful camp in the wilderness I love.”
Paddling home I recalled Haidee’s enthusiasm with a smile. And then I bethought me that she had not after all told me the slightest thing concerning herself or any recent home.
Some two hours later as I bent over the stove in the kitchen, intent on frying some thick slices of cornmeal mush for Joey’s supper, I heard the whir and grind of wheels and the creaking of harness through the open window. I glanced out. A buckskin pony and two-wheeled cart were skirting the ploughed field and approaching the cabin. I glimpsed a familiar figure beneath the pink glow of the lining of the green umbrella. When the buckskin pony was near enough for me to see the green paper rosettes on its harness, I called out to Joey, who was laying the table in the front room:
“Put on another plate, lad. Wanza is coming.”
Something was amiss with Joey. His face had displayed unmistakable signs of perturbation during the day, and there was something infinitely pathetic about the droop of his brown head, usually held so gallantly. I had thought best to disregard his melancholy attitude, knowing that bed-time would bring an unburdening of his heart. In response to my announcement, he gave a fairly frenzied shriek of joy.
“Good—ee!” he shouted, with such a clatter of hob nails as he crossed to the cupboard that I could picture in my mind the jig steps that carried him thither. “There’s a wee bit of molasses in the jug,” he called to me, “I was saving it for taffy—you said I might. I’ll just put it on. And the spring is ’most full of cress, Mr. David,—I’ll scoot out and get a panful before she gets here.”
He was off like a flash through the kitchen to the spring as Wanza entered by the front door.
I went to meet her. I found her standing in the centre of the living room. The door was open behind her, and her hair was like a pale silver flame in the light. As I drew near to her I saw that her cheeks were splashed with crimson, her eyes dark with some tempestuous stress of feeling. There was something unfriendly in her bearing. But I held out my hand and cried blithely: