“Not so far as to the Settlement,” answered Dave; “an’ it don’t take half so long to go because o’ the quick run down river. I reckon, though, we’d best stay over night at White’s clearin’ and come back easy nex’ day—if you don’t mind, Kirstie! Sary Ann White’s a powerful fine woman, an’ Mirandy’s sure to like her. It’ll do her a sight of good, poor thing, to hev Mirandy to talk to a bit.”
He wanted to say that just a look at Miranda’s wild loveliness would do Mrs. White a lot of good; but he had not quite the courage for such a bold compliment.
“No, I don’t mind, if Miranda likes to go,” said Kirstie; “I shan’t be lonesome, as Kroof’ll be round most of the time.”
It had come to be understood, and accepted without comment, that when Dave went anywhere with Miranda the jealous old bear remained at home.
Until they were fairly off, Dave was in a fever of anxiety lest Miranda should change her mind. But this venture had genuinely caught her interest, and no whim tempted her to withdraw. After a breakfast eaten so early that the early June dawn was still throwing its streaks of cool red through the cabin window and discouraging the fire upon the hearth, Dave and Miranda set out. They followed the path to the spring among the alders, and then plunged direct into the woods, aiming a little to the east of north. The dew was thick in silver globules on the chips of the yard and on the plantain leaves. It beaded the slender grasses about the spring, and the young foliage of the alders, and the dazzling veils of the gossamer spiders. This time Dave took his rifle with him, and Miranda paid no heed to it.
The woods were drenching wet, but unusually pervaded with light. The new risen sun sent its fresh rays far up the soundless vistas, and every damp leaf or shining facet of bark diffused its little dole of lustre to thin the gloom. As the sun got higher and the dew exhaled away, the twilight slightly deepened, the inexpressible clarity of the shadowed air returned, and the heart of the ancient wood resumed its magic. The awe, as of an enchantment working unseen, the meaning and expectant stillness, the confusion of near and far, the unreality of the familiar,—all this gripped the imagination of the two travellers just as sharply as if they had not been all their lives accustomed to it. The mystery of the ancient wood was not to be staled by use. These two, sensitive to its spell as a surface of glass to a breath, lay open to it in every nerve, and a tense silence fell upon their lips. In the silence was understanding of each other. It was Dave’s most potent wooing, against which Miranda had no warning, no defence.
As they walked thus noiselessly, light-footed as the furtive folk themselves, suddenly from a bit of open just ahead of them there came the slender, belling cry of a young deer. They had arrived now, after three hours’ rapid walking, at a part of the forest unknown to Miranda. The open space was rock thinly covered with mosses and vines, an upthrust of the granite foundations of a hill which towered near by.
It was an unheard-of thing for a young deer to give cry so heedlessly amid the perilous coverts of the wood. Both the travellers instinctively paused, and then stole forward with greater caution, peering through the branches. To the forest dwellers, beast or human, the unusual is always the suspicious, and therefore to be investigated. A few paces carried them both to a point where Miranda caught sight of the imprudent youngling.
“Hush!” she whispered, laying her hand on Dave’s arm, “Look! the poor little thing’s lost. Don’t frighten it!”
“There’ll be something else’ll frighten it afore long,” muttered Dave, “if it don’t quit its bla’tin’.”