"There is no 'smoky light' to day," said Fleda.
"No," said Mr. Carleton, smiling to himself. "Nothing but that could improve the beauty of all this, Miss Fleda."
"I like it better as it is," said Fleda.
"I am surprised at that," said young Rossitur. "I thought you lived on smoke."
There was nothing in the words, but the tone was not exactly polite. Fleda granted him neither smile nor look.
"I am glad you like it up here," she went on, gravely doing the honours of the place. "I came this way because we shouldn't have so many fences to climb."
"You are the best little guide possible, and I have no doubt would always lead one the right way," said Mr. Carleton.
Again the same gentle, kind, appreciating look. Fleda unconsciously drew a step nearer. There was a certain undefined confidence established between them.
"There's a little brook down there in spring," said she pointing to a small grass grown water-course in the meadow, hardly discernible from the height,--"but there's no water in it now. It runs quite full for a while after the snow breaks up; but it dries away by June or July."
"What are those trees so beautifully tinged with red and orange?--down there by the fence in the meadow."