Far down the sloping hill the river swept along, the low country across the mile-wide current mystically dozing in the golden light of the advancing evening. In the restfulness of the twilight, when all Nature had sunk into a gentleness and mistiness, when the light was softening and objects which had been sharply outlined were imperceptibly growing unreal, it became a scene made up of dreams and fancies.
Sargent sank on the bench, under the influence of the scene and its resemblance to the one he had left so far behind him. A doubt of ever seeing the place he called home rushed over him, bringing with it the first deep pang of home-sickness. Why had he come so far from home? Was it really for his good?
All the while the little girl was hastily turning the pages of the book, searching for the lines she wanted. At last, finding what she sought, she ran over them, her lips moving inaudibly with the words. Finally her finger marking the lines, she handed the book to Sargent and stood erect before him.
"Now," she said, "will you hear them?" looking at him shyly, for she had been quick to see the wistful look in his eyes.
He met her look, smiling encouragingly, as she clasped her hands behind her and riveted her gaze on the trees for better concentration. Then she spoke the lines in a quick, excited voice:
"And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything."
Sargent waited until she had finished, then closed the book slowly, repeating the lines after her. She listened intently, her eyes growing deeper as she came nearer to him.
"Say it again, please," she almost whispered, sitting down on the bench beside him and slipping her hand through his arm. "It is so beautiful when you say it. I know I'm going to like you—your voice is so—so sweet!"
Sargent turned toward her and clasped her little hand in his own.
"Who told you to learn those lines?" he asked, after a moment's silence.