“But, oh, it is good to breathe—just breathe!” Throwing back her shoulders, she drank in a breath of air that was like water, clear and cold from a deep well.
On this long tramp Florence led the way. Never a person who would waste breath with idle talk on such an occasion, she plodded along in silence. For all that, her active brain was busy. She was thinking through a very special and private interview she had had with Swen the fisher boy only three days before.
“So you are going way back up yonder?” He had waved a sun-browned arm toward the distant ridge.
“Yes.” Florence had caught her breath. “Yes, we are going up there. Won’t it be gr-a-a-nd! They say no one goes up there—that perhaps no one has ever been up there. It must be lonely, silent, beautiful!”
“It’s all of that.” The fisherman’s blue eyes were frank and kind. “But I thought I’d ought to tell you, just in case you don’t know, there’s someone waiting for you up there.”
“No.” The girl spoke quickly. “No, there is no one at all. We are going by ourselves, just Greta and I. We sent no one ahead.”
“I believe you,” Swen replied. “All the same, there’s someone up there. I’ll tell you how I know.”
As if to collect his thoughts, he had paused, looking away at Greenstone Ridge. Florence recalled that now.
It was worth looking at, that ridge. In truth, every little corner of this large island was worth looking at.
Just then the setting sun had transformed the far-away green of spruce and balsam into a crown of green and gold.