It was in search of this sympathy that she had set forth along the highway to-day. The late afternoon was a poem of mystic clouds and mysterious shadows. Far off against the distant horizon, mountains veiled in mists lifted majestic peaks into the air, their summits lost amid swiftly traveling masses of whiteness; 116 rifts of purple haze lengthened over the valley; and the fields, dotted with haycocks, breathed forth the perfume of drying grass.
As Lucy walked along she began singing softly to herself. Her day’s work was done; and her aunt, who had driven with Tony to bring home a load of lumber from the sawmill, would not return until late in the evening. Six delicious hours were her own to be spent in whatever manner her fancy pleased. It was an unheard-of freedom. Never since she had come to Sefton Falls had she known such a long stretch of liberty. What wonder that she swung along with feet scarce touching the earth!
A redwing called from the bracken bordering the brook, and the girl called back, trying to mimic its glad note. She snatched a flower from the roadside and tucked it in her hair; she laughed audaciously into the golden face of the sun. Her exuberance was mounting to ecstasy when she rounded a curve and suddenly, without warning, came face to face with Jane Howe.
The woman was proceeding with extreme care, carrying in either hand a large and well-heaped pail of berries. 117
Before Lucy thought, she stepped forward and exclaimed impulsively:
“Do let me help you! They must be dreadfully heavy.”
“’Tain’t so much that they’re heavy,” Jane answered, smiling, “as that they’re full. I’m afraid I’ll spill some.”
“Give me one pail.”
“Do you really mean it?”
“Of course. I’d be glad to take it.”