“I think it was his own,” said Rose.
“Oh!”
“How the smoke still thickens, papa! And the water is now a green bronze.”
“Yes, and the sun— Here is my word-sketch: ‘Eleven A. M. Sun over and back of me. Air full of smoke. Hills a delicate, airy blue. Sun orange-red, with a blur of yellow around it. All shadows on gray sand a faint green. Delicate opalescence on smooth, slightly rippled water. Deep purple reflections of dead trees. Sense of strangeness—of mystery.’”
“That is almost as good as a picture, Pardy.”
“At early morning here,” he went on, “the river-bed is full of mist. The combination of this with smoke gives some very weird effects. If we have a bright yellow sunset this evening, the dead trees on the hilltops will be of a pure orange tint.”
“I shall imagine the morning colors,” said Rose. “I am like the salmon. How they are rising now!”
“Yes; and so is my appetite. Shall we go? It will be lunch-time before we get back.”
“And this is our last Sunday on the river for this year,” said Rose.
“And perhaps my last for all years,” thought Anne; yet what she said was this: