Nathalie hummed softly, in tune to the ripple of a tiny brooklet from a spring near by, that trickled and splashed in a low murmur over its pebbly bed in the ditch fringed with straggling wild flowers in flaunting July bloom. They were too luring to be resisted, and presently the beautiful dull pink of the Joe-Pye weed, saucy black-eyed Susans, yellow buttercups, wild carrot, and blue violets, nodded gayly from the nosegay pinned to her blouse.
A short walk and the woods had been left behind, as the girl stood on a wide-spreading knoll with the rock-lit eyes of Garnet Mountain peering down at her on her right, while on the left grassy meadows stretched away into velvety slopes. Their green was crossed by low stone walls, patched with the gray of apple orchard, and ribboned with avenues of stately trees, or fringes of woodland, but always ending in the rugged grandeur of craggy summit.
Nathalie drew a deep breath of the sweet-scented mountain breezes, as her eyes dwelt on the scene before her, for to her every blade of grass, or feathery fern, as well as each peeping floweret, wide-spreading tree, or gray bowlder, were but details that added to the charm of each day’s mountain-picture. The rare splendor of the scene inspired her, as it were, to new thoughts and feelings, vague and undefined, but the shadow of things to come, in the birth of ideals and words that were to find expression later on.
But now she was strolling along under an avenue of stately maples, bordered by a stone wall almost hidden with clambering vines, until presently she had passed by another silent greenwood, to arrive at a little white church, set on rising ground. A swift turn and she was walking down the flagged street of the mountain village, sheltered with friendly old trees, and lined with the usual straggle of white cottages, blurred with the red of an old barn, while just beyond, against the pearl gray of the horizon, rose the jagged line of the Green Mountains.
She glanced admiringly at the tiny Memorial Library perched conspicuously on a terrace opposite, and then she was at the post-office, once a small white cottage, but now used by Uncle Sam as a mail distributor, the lounging-resort of aged mountaineers and sons of the soil. Here, too, the village gentry, as well as the citified summer folk from the boarding-houses and hotels on the upper slopes of Sugar Hill, lingered for a chat or a word of greeting when they came for the mail.
After slipping her letter into the box, Nathalie found that although the mail had come in it had not been distributed, so she decided to wait for it. With ill-concealed impatience, for she hated to linger in the stuffy little store, she leaned idly against a glass case, in which one saw the yellow-brown of maple-sugar cakes, the red and white of peppermint sticks, as well as post-cards of mountain views, and pine pillows. As it was the only store within a radius of some miles its wares were numerous and varied, as almost anything, from a loaf of bread, a lollypop, or a case of needles, to a bottle of patent medicine, was on sale.
Suddenly, as if impelled by some unknown power, the girl raised her eyes to encounter the bold stare of a tall young man in a gray Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers, and high leather boots, who was nonchalantly leaning against the opposite counter, with his cap pushed on the back of his head, smoking a cigar.
CHAPTER IX
THE LITTLE OLD LADY IN THE RED HOUSE
The girl turned her head quickly aside, for there was something in the ill-concealed admiration in the man’s black eyes that caused the color to rush in a wave to her cheeks. Several minutes later a careless glance in the man’s direction, as she casually surveyed the other occupants of the store, impelled her to stare curiously, as she perceived a rather peculiar motion,—a sudden twitching shake of his head, repeated every moment or so. Realizing that the man was the victim of some nervous affliction, her eyes involuntarily softened with pity, and then noting that there were several letters in her box, she hurried forward to get them.