It was a long perspective to limp through alone, with all those bright, merry eyes peering from behind the spruce trees. But I had not labored over half the way, when I saw one, the tallest one, coming toward me.
Vesty.
"Won't you have some?" she said. "Strangers don't know how good it is; it is very good for you—a little." Yes, she was chewing the gum—a little—herself; but that wild pure resin from the trees, and with, oh, such teeth! such lips! a breath like the fragrant shades she had issued from.
She poured some of her spicy gleanings into my hand.
And now I could see her closely.
I do not know how she would have looked at other men, strong men; but at me she looked as the girl mother who bore me, untimely and in terror, might have done, had she been now in the flesh, mutely protective against all the world, without repugnance, infinitely tender.
"I am coming up to sit with you and Miss Pray, some evening," she said. Her warm brown fingers touched mine. She did not blush; she had her Sunday face—holy, grave.
"Come! God bless you, child!" I said, and limped on, strong against the world.
I sat by the fireplace that evening; not a night in all the year in this sweet north country but you shall find the fire welcome.
Miss Pray's fireplace stretched wide between door and door. Opposite it were the windows; you saw the water, the moon shone in.