We walked on and saw the curdled line of the surf, and heard the long sigh that passes up from the sea along the pines, and smelled the beaches. All at once I was aware of the soft springing of the grass under foot.
“Herman! Herman! Where is the trail? Look! We have lost it.”
We looked, and there was the locked wood behind, and the soft, untrodden turf before.
“It was here by the buckthorn, I think.”
“By the ceanothus; it came out between two pines.” But though we looked and ran, it was not in either of these places.
“Herman, we shall never find the trail to that country again.”
“Yes, Mona.”
“Ah, look for it, Herman, come and look!”
Herman stood by the ceanothus and looked at me instead. “Mona,” he said, “the trail is here.”
“Where, Herman?” But I could not look at him where he stood because of the shining of his eyes.