I take it back back from God the promise I gave you there by the fall. Page 171.
For an instant Cassandra waited thus, as if she too were struck dead where she stood. Then she looked no more on the fallen man, but only at Frale, with eyes immovable and yet withdrawn, as if she were searching in her own soul for a thing to do, while her heart stood still and her throat closed. Those great gray eyes, with the green sea depths in them, began to glow with a cruel light, as if she too could kill,—as if they were drawing slowly from the deep well of her being, as it were, a sword from its scabbard wherewith to cut him through the heart. Her hand stole to her throat and pressed hard. Then she lifted it high above her head and held it, as if in an instant more one might see the invisible sword flash forth and strike him. Frale cried out then, "Don't, don't curse me, Cass," and lifted his arm to shield his face, while great beads of moisture stood out on his face.
"It's not for me to curse, Frale." Her voice was low and clear. "Curses come from hell, like what you been carrying in your heart that made you do this." Her voice grew louder, and her hand trembled and shut as if it grasped something. "I take it back—back from God—the promise I gave you there by the fall." Then, looking up, her voice grew low again, though still distinct. "I take that promise back forever, oh, God!" Her hand dropped. The cruel light died slowly out of her eyes, and she turned and knelt by the prostrate man, and began pulling open his coat. Frale took one step toward her.
"Cass," he said, with shaking voice, "I'll he'p you."
Her hands clinched into David's coat as she held it. "Go back. Don't you touch even his least finger," she cried, looking up at him from where she knelt like a creature hurt to the heart, defending its own. "You've done your work. Take your face where I never can see it again."
He still stood and looked down on her. She turned again to David, and, thrusting her hand into his bosom, drew it forth with blood upon it.
"I say, you Frale!" she cried, holding it toward him, quivering with the ferocity she could no longer restrain, "leave here, or with this blood on my hand I'll call all hell to curse you."
Frale turned with bowed head and left her there.
Thryng lay in Hoke Belew's cabin,—not in the one great living-room where were the fireplace and the large bed and the tiny cradle, but in the smaller addition at the side, entered only from the porch which extended along the front of both parts.
He still lay on the litter upon which he had been placed to carry him down the mountain,—an improvised thing made by stretching quilts across two poles of slender green pines. The litter was placed on low trestles to raise it from the floor, and close to the open door to give him air. David had not regained consciousness since his hurt, but lay like one dead, with closed eyes and blanched lips; yet they knew him to be living.
Cassandra sat beside him alone. All night long she had been there unsleeping, hollow-eyed, and worn with tearless grief. She had done all she knew how to do. Before going for help she had removed his clothing and bound about his body strips torn from her dress to stop the bleeding of his shoulders where the silver bullet had torn across them. How the ball had missed giving a mortal wound was like a miracle.
Hoke Belew had tried to arouse him, but had failed. At intervals, during the night, Cassandra had managed to drop a little whiskey between his lips with a spoon, and she had bathed him with the stimulant over heart and lungs, and chafed his hands, and had tried to warm his feet by rubbing them and wrapping them up between jugs of hot water. She had bathed his bruised head and cut away the softly curling hair from the spot where his head had struck the rock. What more she could do she knew not, and now she sat at his side still chafing his hands and waiting for Hoke Belew's return.
Hoke had gone to the station to telegraph for BishopTowers. Fortunately, as the hotel was so soon to be opened and the busy summer life to begin, the operator was already there.
Azalea, in the great room, was preparing dinner, stopping now and then to touch her baby's cradle, or to stoop a moment over the treasure therein. Aunt Sally sat in the doorway smoking her cob pipe and telling grewsome tales of how she had "seen people hurted that-a-way and nevah come out en hit." Sally had ridden over to give help and sympathy, but Cassandra had said she would watch alone. She had eaten nothing since the day before, only sipping the coffee Azalea had brought her.
It was one of those breathless hours before a rain when not a leaf stirs; even the birds were silent. Cassandra tried once more to give David a few drops of the whiskey, and this time it seemed as if he swallowed a little. She thought she saw his eyelids quiver, and her heart pounded suffocatingly in her breast. She dropped beside him on her knees and once again tried to give him the only stimulant they had. This time she was sure he took it, and, still kneeling there, she bowed her head and pressed her lips upon the hand she had been chafing. Did it move or not? She could not tell, and again she sat gazing in the still, white face. Oh, the suspense! Oh, the joy that was agony! If this were truly the awakening and meant life! In her intensity of longing for some further signs she drew slowly nearer and nearer, until at last her lips touched his. Then in shame she hid her face in the quilt at his side and, weak with the exhaustion of her long anguish and fasting and watching, she wept the first tears—tears of hope she was not strong enough to bear. As she thus knelt, weeping softly, his fluttering eyelids lifted and he saw her there, and felt the quivering hand beneath his head.
Not understanding how or why this should be, he waited perfectly still, trying to gather his thoughts. A great peace was in his heart—a peace and content so sweet he did not wish to move. Lingering beneath this content, he held a dim memory of a great anger—a horror of anger, when he saw red, and hungered for blood. Vaguely it seemed to him now that all was as he wished it to be with Cassandra near. He liked to feel her hand beneath hishead and her other hand upon his own, and her heavy bronze hair so close, and he closed his eyes once more to shut out all else, for the room was strange to him—this raftered place all whitewashed from ceiling to floor.
He had forgotten what had happened, but Cassandra was there, and he was content. Something had touched his lips and brought him back, he was sure of that, and his weakly beating heart stirred to more vigorous action. He turned his head a little, a very little, toward her, and his fingers closed about her hand to hold it there. She lifted her head then, and they looked into each other's eyes, a long, deep look. Later, when Azalea entered, she found them both sleeping, Cassandra's hand still beneath his head, his face pressed to her soft hair and his free arm flung about her.
Azalea stole away and hurried with the news to old Sally, who also crept in and looked on them and stole away.
"Yas, she sure have saved his life," said Sally. "Heap o' times they nevah do come out en that thar kin' o' sleep. I done seed sech before."
"Ef he have come to hisself, you reckon I bettah wake 'em up and give her a leetle hot milk? She hain't eat nothin' sence yestiday."
"Naw, leave 'em be. No body nevah hain't starved in his sleep yit, I reckon."
"He hain't eat nothin', neithah. He sure have been bad hurted."
The two women sat in the large room and talked in low tones, while at intervals Azalea crept to the door and looked in on them.
At last the baby wailed out with lusty cry, which sounded through the stillness of the house and roused Cassandra, but as she lifted her head, David clung to her and drew her cheek to his lips.
"Are you hurt?" he murmured. In some strange way he had confused matters, and thought it was she who had been shot.
"It's not me that's hurt," she said tenderly.
Azalea hurried away and returned with the warm milk she had prepared for Cassandra, who took it and held it to David's lips.
"Drink it, Doctah. She won't touch anything till you do."
Then he obeyed, slowly drinking it all, his eyes fixed on Cassandra's as a child looks up to his mother. As she rose, he held her with his free hand.
"What is it? How long—" His voice sounded thin and weak. "Strange—I can't lift this arm at all. Tell me—"
"Seems like I can't. When you are strong again, I will."
Feebly he tried to raise himself. "Don't, oh, don't, Doctah Thryng. If you bleed again, you'll die," she wailed.
"Sit near me."
She drew a low chair and sat near him, as she had through the slow and anxious hours, and again he drowsed off, only to open his eyes from time to time as if to assure himself that she was still there. Again Azalea brought her milk and white beaten biscuit, hot and sweet, and Cassandra ate. When David opened his eyes to look at her, she smiled on him, but would not let him talk to her.
Nevertheless his mind was busy trying to understand why he was lying thus, and dimly the events of the last few days came back to him, shadowy and confused. When he looked up and saw her smile, his heart was satisfied, but when he closed his eyes again, a strange sense of tragedy settled down upon him, but what or why he knew not. Suddenly he called to her as if from his sleep, "Have I killed some one?" and there was horror in his voice.
"No, no, Doctor Thryng. You been nigh about killed yourself. Oh, why didn't I send for a doctor who could do you right! Bishop Towers won't know anything about this."
"What have you done?"
"I sent for Bishop Towers."
"Who did me up like this?"
She was silent and, rising quickly, stepped out on the porch, her cheeks flaming crimson. Yesterday in her terror and frenzy she could have done anything; but now—with his eyes fixed on her face so intently—she could not reply nor tell how, alone, she had stripped him to the waist and bound him about with the homespun cotton of her dress to stanch the bleeding before hurrying down the mountain for help.
Instinctively she had done the right thing and had doneit well, but now she could not talk about it. David tried to call after her, but she had gone around into the next room and taken the baby from his cradle, where he was wailing his demands for attention. Azalea had gone out for a moment, and Aunt Sally "lowed the' wa'n't no use sp'ilin him by takin' him up every time he fretted fer hit. Hit would do him good to holler an' stretch." So she sat still and smoked.
Cassandra walked up and down the porch, comforted by the feeling of the child in her arms. The small head bobbed this way and that until she pressed it against her cheek and held him close, and he gradually settled down on her bosom, his face tucked softly in the curve of her neck, and slept. She heard David speaking her name and went to him, but he only looked up at her and smiled.
"I'm sorry I left you alone," she said tenderly; "I'll call Aunt Sally."
"No—wait—I only want—to look at you."
She stood swaying her lithe body to rock the sleeping child. David thought he never had seen anything lovelier. How serious his wounds were, he did not know. But one thing he knew well, and to that one thought he clung. He wanted Cassandra where he could see her all the time. He wished she would talk to him, and not let him lose consciousness, relapsing into the horror of a strange dream that continued to haunt him.
"Do you love that baby?" he asked, his voice faint and high.
"He's a right nice baby."
"I say—do you love him?"
"Why—I reckon I do. Don't try to move that way, Doctah. You may not be done right, and you'll bleed again. Oh, we don't know—we are so ignorant—Azalie and me—"
He smiled. "Nothing matters now," he said.
They heard voices, and she looked out from the doorway. "It's Hoke. They've sent old Doctor Bartlett. I'm so glad. Aunt Sally, I reckon they'll need hot water. Get some ready, will you?"
"Cassandra, Cassandra!" called David, almost irritably.
She came back to him.
"Where are they?"
"Down the road a piece. I'm glad. You'll be done right now."
"Stoop to me." She obeyed, and the free arm caught and held her, then, as the voices drew near, released her with glowing eyes and burning cheeks.
She stepped out on the porch to meet them, half hiding her face behind the babe in her arms, and old Dr. Bartlett, as he looked on her with less prejudiced and more experienced eyes, thought he too never had seen anything lovelier.
"He's awake," said Cassandra quietly to Hoke, and the two men went to David. She carried the child back and asked Aunt Sally to wait on them, while she sat down in a low splint rocker, clinging to the little one and listening, with throbbing nerves, to the voices in the room beyond.
When Hoke came out to them a moment later, Azalea began eagerly to question him, but Cassandra was silent.
"Doctah says we bettah tote 'im ovah to his own place to-day. Aunt Sally 'lows she can bide thar fer a while an' see him well again."
"You hain't goin' to 'low that, be ye, Hoke? Hit mount look like we wa'n't willin' fer him to bide 'long of us."
"Hit hain't what looks like, hit's what's best fer him," said Hoke, sagely. "Whatevah doctah says, we'll do." Then Hoke laughed quietly. "He done tol' Doctor Bartlett 'at he reckoned somebody mus' 'a' took him fer some sorter wild creetur an' shot him by mistake. I guess Frale's safe enough f'om him, if the fool boy only know'd hit."
"Frale, he's plumb crazy, the way he's b'en actin'," said Azalea.
"An' Bishop Towahs he telegrafted 'at he'd send this here doctah, an' he'd come up to-morrer with Miz Towahs to stop ovah with you, so I reckon yer maw wants you down thar, Cass."
Cassandra rose quickly and placed the sleeping child gently in his cradle box. "I'll go," she said. "There's no need for me here now. Hoke—you've been right good—" She stopped abruptly and turned to his wife. "I must wear your dress off, Azalie, but I'll send it back by Hoke as soon as hit's been washed." She went out the door almost as if she were eager to escape.
"Hain't ye goin' to wait fer yer horse?" said Hoke, laughing. "Set a minute till I fetch him."
"I clean forgot," she said, and when he had left, she turned to her friend. "Azalie—don't say anything to Hoke about me—us. Did Aunt Sally see? You know I didn't know myself until I woke and found myself there. I'd been trying to make him take a little whiskey—and—I must have gone asleep like I was—and he woke up and must 'a' felt like he had to kiss somebody—he was that glad to be alive."
"Nevah you fret, child." Azalea smiled a quiet smile. "I'm not one to talk; anyway, I reckon Doctah Thryng's about right. He sure have been good to me."
The widow sat on her little stoop, waiting and watching, as her daughter rode to the door and wearily alighted.
"Cassandry Merlin! For the Lord's sake! What-all is up now? Hoyle—where is that boy?—Hoyle, come here an' take the horse fer sister. Be ye most dade, honey? I reckon ye be. Ye look like hit."
Cassandra kissed her mother and passed on into the house. "I couldn't send you word last night; anyway, I reckoned you'd rest better if you didn't know, for we-all thought Doctor Thryng was sure killed. Did Hoke tell you this morning?"
"I 'lowed you was stoppin' with Azalie—'at baby was sick or somethin'—when Hoyle went up to the cabin an' said doctah wa'n't there. Frale sure have done for hisself. I reckon you are cl'ar shet o' him now, an' I'm glad ye be, since he done took to the idee o' marryin' with you. What-all have he done the doctah this-a-way fer? The' wa'n't nothin' 'twixt him an' doctah. Pore fool boy he! I'll be glad fer yuer sake, Cass, if he'll quit these here mountains."
"Oh, mother, mother! Don't talk about me, don't think of me! The doctor's nigh about killed—let alone the sin Frale has on him now." Wearied beyond further endurance, she flung herself on her bed and broke into uncontrollable sobbing, while Hoyle stood in the middle of the room and gazed with wide-eyed wonder.
"Be the doctah dade, maw?" he asked, in an awed whisper.
"No, child, no. You fetch a leetle light ud an' chips, an' we'll make her some coffee. Sister's that tired, pore child! Have ye been up all night, Cass?"
She nodded her head and still sobbed on.
"He's gettin' on all right now, be he?"
Again she nodded, but did not take her hands from her face.
"Then you'd ought to be glad. Hit ain't like Frale had of killed him. Farwell, he had many a time sech as that with one an' another, an' he nevah come to no harm f'om hit. I reckon Frale'll be safe. Be ye cryin' fer him, Cass? Pore child! I nevah did think you keered fer Frale that-a-way."
Then Cassandra burst forth with impetuous fire. "Oh, mother, mother! Never say that name to me again. Mother, I saw them! I saw them fighting—and all the time the doctor was bleeding—bleeding and dying, where Frale had shot him. I don't know how long they'd been fighting, but I came there and I saw them. I saw him slip and how Frale crushed him down—down—and his head struck the rock. I saw—and I almost cursed Frale. I hope I didn't—oh, I hope not! But mother, mother! Don't ask me anything more now. Oh, I want to cry! I want to cry and never stop."
While she lay thus weeping, the soft rain that had been threatening all day began pattering down, blessed and soothing, the rain to the earth and the tears to the girl.
In spite of the rain, Thryng was carried home that afternoon according to the physician's orders, and placed in his cabin with Aunt Sally to stand guard over him and provide for his wants. A bed was improvised for her on the floor of the cabin, while David lay in his own bed in his canvas room, bandaged about both body and head, and withal moderately comfortable, sufficiently himself to realize what had occurred, and overjoyed because of the reward his wounds had brought him.
Doctor Bartlett came down to the Fall Place and was given the bed in the loom shed as David had been, and had the pleasure of again seeing Cassandra, who, her tears dried, and her manner composed, looked after his needs as if no storms had ever shaken her soul.
Early one morning Hoke Belew put his head in at the door of Thryng's cabin, where Aunt Sally was squatted before the fireplace, preparing breakfast for the patient.
"How's doc?" he asked.
"He's right fa'r. He mount be worse an' he mount be bettah."
"You reckon I mount go in yandah whar he is at?"
"Ye can look an' see is he awake. I'm gittin' his hot bread an' coffee. You bettah bide an' have a leetle," she said, with ever ready hospitality.
He crossed the floor with careful steps and paused in the doorway of the canvas room, big and smiling.
"That you, Hoke? Come in," said David, cheerfully. He extended a hand which Hoke took in his and held awkwardly, shocked at the white face before him.
"Ye do look puny," he said at last. "But we-uns sure be glad yer livin'. Ye tol' me to come early, so I come."
"It's awfully good of you. Bring a chair and sit near, so we can talk a bit. Now, Hoke, laid up here as I am, I need your help. I want to send you to Farington or Lone Pine—somewhere—I don't know where such things are to be had—but, Hoke, you've been married and know all about what's needed here."
"Ye want me to git ye a license, I reckon," said Hoke, grinning, "an' ye mount send me a errant I'd like a heap worse—that's so; but what good will hit be to ye now? You can't stan' on your feet."
"I can put it under my pillow and keep it to get well on. See here, Hoke. I don't even know if she'll marry me; she has not said so, but I'll be ready. You'll keep this quiet for me, Hoke? Because it would trouble her if the whole mountain side should know what I have done before she does. Yet a girl like Cassandra is worth winning ifyou have to go to the edge of the grave to do it, so whenever she will have me, I want to be ready."
They talked in low tones, Hoke leaning forward close to David, his elbows on his knees. "I reckon you are a-thinkin' to bide on here 'long o' we-uns an' not carry her off nowhar else?" he asked gravely.
David's paleness left him for a moment, as the warm tide swept upward from his heart. "My home is not in this country, and wherever a man goes, he expects to take his wife with him. Don't you people here in the mountains do the same?"
"I reckon so, but hit would nigh about kill Azalie if she war to lose Cass. They have been frien's evah sence they war littlin's."
"Hoke, if you were to find it necessary to go away anywhere, would you leave your wife behind to please Cassandra Merlin?" The man was silent, and David continued. "Before you were married if you had known there was another man, and a criminal at that, hanging around determined to get her, wouldn't you have married her out of hand as soon as you could get her consent? It's my opinion, knowing the sort of man you are, that you would."
"I sure would."
"Then you can understand why I wish to have a marriage license under my pillow."
"I reckon so—but—you—you-all hain't quite our kind—not bein' kin to none of us— You understand me, suh. We-uns are a proud people here, an' we think a heap o' our women. Hit would be right hard should you git sorter tired o' Cassandry when you come to git her amongst your people—bein' she hain't like none o' your folks, understand; an' Cassandry, she's sorter hard hit jest now, she don't rightly know what-all she do think. Me an' Azalie, we been speakin' right smart together—an'—well, we do sure think a heap o' you, Doc—an' hit ain't no disrespect to you-uns, neither. Have you said anything to her maw?"
"Not a word. When I learned another man was before me, I stood one side as an honorable man should and gave him his chance. But when it comes to being attacked by the other man and shot in the back— by heaven! nopower on earth will hold me from trying to win her. As for the other matter, never you fear. Be my friend, Hoke."
"Waal, I reckon you'll have yer own way, an' I mount as well git hit fer ye, but I did promise Azalie 'at I'd speak that word to ye," said the young man, rising with an air of relief.
"Tell your wife that you are both of you quite right, and that I am right also. Just hunt up my trousers, will you? I want my pocket-book. If I have to sign anything before anybody—bring him here. I don't care what you do, so you get it. There, on that card you have it all—my full name and all that, you know."
David tried to eat what Sally prepared for him, using his unbound hand; but his egg was hard, his coffee thick and boiled. He could not drink it very well for his head was too low, and he could not raise himself, so he lay silent and uncomfortable, watching her move about his rooms, wearing her great black sunbonnet. She appeared kindly and pleasant when he could see her face, which was thin and very much lined, but motherly and good. He fell in the way of calling her "Aunt Sally" as others did, and this seemed to please her. She treated him as if he were a big boy who did not know what was good for himself. She called all the green blossoming things with which Cassandra had adorned the cabin, "trash," and asked who had "toted hit thar."
Waiting and listening, sure Cassandra would not leave him all day without coming to him, even though Aunt Sally had taken him in charge, David's mind was full of her. If he closed his eyes, he saw her. If he opened them and watched Sally's meagre form and black sunbonnet moving about, he thought what it might be to see Cassandra there.
He could not and would not look at the future. The picture Hoke Belew had summoned up when he had suggested the taking of Cassandra away among people alien to her, he put from him. He would not see it nor think of it. The present was his, and it was all he had, perhaps all he ever would have; and now he would not allow one little joy of it to escape him. He would be greedy of it and have all the gladness of the moments as they came.
He could see her down below making ready for their visitors, and he knew she would not come until the last task was done, but meantime his patience was wearing away. Aunt Sally finished her work, and David could see her from where he lay, seated in the doorway with her pipe, looking out on the gently falling rain.
Without, all was very peaceful; only within himself was turmoil and impatience. But he knew that to remain calm and unmoved was to keep back his fever and hasten recuperation, so he closed his eyes and tried to live for the moment in the remembrance of that awakening when he had found her kneeling at his side. Thus he dropped to sleep, and again, when he awoke, he found Cassandra there as if in answer to his silent call.
She was seated quietly sewing, as if it were no unusual thing for her to visit him thus, and when his earnest gaze caused her to look up, she only smiled without perturbation and came to him.
"I sent Aunt Sally down to see mother while I could stay by you and do for you a little," she said.
Calm and restful she seemed, yet when he extended his free hand and took hers, he felt a tremor in her touch that delighted his heart. He brought it to his lips.
"I've been needing you all the morning. Aunt Sally has done everything—all she could. If I should let you have this hand again, would you go so far away from me that I could not reach you?"
"Not if you want me near."
"Then put away your sewing and bring your chair close to me, and let us talk together while we may."
She obeyed and sat looking away from him out through the open door. Were her eyes searching for the mountain top?
"You have thoughts—sweet, big thoughts, dear girl; put them in words for me now, while we are so blessedly alone."
"I can't say rightly what I think. Seems like if I had some other way—something besides words to tell my thoughts with, I could do it better; but words are all we have—and seems like when I want them most they won't come."
"That's the way with all of us. Don't you see you arestill beyond my reach? Come. If you can't tell your thoughts in words, give them by the touch of your hands as you did a moment ago."
She did as he bade her and, leaning forward, took his hand in both her own.
"That's right. I'll teach you how to tell your thoughts without words. Now, how came you to find us the other day?"
"I don't know myself. It was a strange way. First I rode down to Teasley's Mill to—to try to persuade them—Giles Teasley—to allow him to go free." She paused and put her hand to her throat, as her way was. "I think, Doctor Thryng, I'd better build up the fire and get you some hot milk. Doctor Bartlett said you must have it often—and—to keep you very quiet."
"Not until you tell me now—this moment—what I ask you. You went to the mill to try to help Frale out of his trouble. Cassandra, have you loved that boy?"
Her face assumed its old look of masklike impassivity. "I reckoned he might hold himself steady and do right—would they only leave him be—and give him the chance—"
"Cassandra, answer me. Was it for love of him that you gave him your promise?"
Her face grew white, and for a moment she bowed her head on his hand.
"Please, Doctor Thryng, let me tell you the strange part first, then you can answer that question in your own way." She lifted her head and looked steadily in his eyes. "You remember that day we went to Cate Irwin's? When we came to the place where we can see far—far over the mountains—I laughed—with something glad in my heart. It was the same this time when I got to that far open place. All at once it seemed like I was so free—free from the heavy burden—and all in a kind of light that was only the same gladness in my heart.
"I stopped there and waited and thought how you said that time, 'It's good just to be alive,' and I thought if you were there with me and should put your hand on my bridle as you did that night in the rain, and if you should lead me away off—even into the 'Valley of the shadow of death' into those deep shadows below us I would go and never say a word. All at once it seemed as if you weredoing that, and I forgot Frale and kept on and on; and wherever it seemed like you were leading me, I went.
"It seemed like I was dreaming, or feeling like a hand was on my heart—a hand I could not see, pulling me and making me feel, 'This way, this way, I must go this way.' I never had been where my horse took me before. I didn't think how I ever could get back again. I didn't seem to see anything around me—only to go on—on—on, and at last it seemed I couldn't go fast enough, until all at once I came to your horse tied there, and I heard strange trampling sounds a little farther on where my horse could not go—and I got off and ran.
"I fell down and got up and ran again; and it seemed as if my feet wouldn't leave the ground, but only held me back. It seemed like they hadn't any more power to run—and—then I came there and I saw." She paused, covering her face with her hand as if to shut out the sight, and slipped to her knees beside him. "Oh, I saw your faces—all terrible—" He put his arm about her and drew her close. "I saw you fall, and your face when it seemed like you were dying as you fought. I saw—" Her sobs shook her, and she could not go on.
"My beautiful priestess of good and holy things!" he said.
She leaned to him then and, placing her arms about him, ever mindful of his hurt, she lifted his head to her shoulder. The flood-gates of her reserve once lifted, the full tide of her intense nature swept over him and enveloped him. It was as light to his soul and healing to his body. How often it had seemed as if he saw her with that halo of light about her, and now it was as if he had been drawn within its charmed radius, as surely he had.
"And then, dear heart, what did you do?"
"I thought you were killed, and almost—almost I cursed him. I hope now I wasn't so wicked. But I—I—called back from God the promise I had given him."
"And then—tell me all the blessed truth—and then—"
"You were bleeding—bleeding—and I took off your clothes—and I saw where you were bleeding your life away, and I tied my dress around you. I tore it in pieces and wound it all around you as well as I could, and then Iput your coat back on you, and still you didn't waken. It seemed as if you had stopped breathing. And then I saw the bruise on your head, and I thought maybe you were only stunned. I brought water from the branch and put your head on the wet cloth and bound it all around, but still you looked like he had killed you, and then—" he stirred in her arms to feel their clasp.
"And then—then—"
"I went for help," she said, in so low a tone it seemed hardly spoken.
"First you did something you have not told me."
She waited in a sweet shame he recognized and gloried in, but he wanted the confession from her lips.
"And then?"
"You said you would teach me to say things without words," she said tremulously.
"Not now. Later. Put everything you did in words. And then—"
"I thought you were dying." She drew in a long, sighing breath.
"And you kissed me. I have a right to know, for I missed them all—"
"I did, I did," she cried vehemently. "A hundred times I kissed you. I had called my promise back from God—and I dared it. I wasn't ashamed. I would have done it if all the mountain side had been there to see—but afterwards—when that strange doctor from Farington came, and I knew he must uncover you and find my torn dress around you—somehow, then I felt I didn't want for him to look at me, and I was glad to go away."
"Do you want to know what he said when he saw it? 'Whoever did this kept you alive, young man.' So you see how you are my beautiful bringer of good. You are—Oh, I have only one arm now. I am at a disadvantage. When I can stand on my feet, I will pay them all back—those kisses you threw away on me then. We shan't need words then, dearest. I'll teach you the sweet lesson. Your arms tremble; they are tired, dear. Could you let your head rest here and sleep as you did the other day? To think how I woke and found you beside me sleeping—"
"Let me go now. I have things I ought to do for you."
"Not yet. I have things I must say to you."
"Please, Doctor Thryng."
"My name is David. You must call me by it."
"Please, Doctor David, let me go."
"Why?"
"To warm some milk. I brought it up for you."
"Pity we must eat to live. Then if I let you take your arms away, will you come back to me?"
"Yes. I'll bring the milk."
"There, go. I'm giving you your own way because I know I will recover the sooner the strength I have lost. A man flat on his back, with but one arm free, is no good."
"But you don't let me go."
"Listen, Cassandra. You brought me back to life. Do you know what for? What did your father tell you? That one should be sent for you? It is I, dearest. From away over on the other side of the earth, I have come for you. We fought like beasts—Frale and I. I had given you up—you—Cassandra; had said in my heart, 'I will go away and leave her to the one she has chosen, if that be right,' and even at that moment, Frale shot me and sprang upon me, and I fought. I was glad the chance was given me there in the wilderness in that old and primitive way, to settle it and win you.
"I put all the force and strength of my body into it, and more; all the strength of my love for you. It was with that in my heart, we clinched. I said I will fight to the death for her. She shall be mine whether I live or die. Stop crying, sweet; be glad as I am. Give thanks that it was to the life and not to the death. Listen, once more, while I can feel and know; give way to your great heart of love and treat me as you did after you had bound up my wounds. Learn the sweet lesson I said I would teach you."
Late that evening, Hoke Belew rode up to the door of David's cabin and called Aunt Sally out to speak with him.
"How's doc?"
"He's doin' right well. He's asleep now. Won't ye 'light an' come in?"
"I reckon not. Azalie, she's been alone all day, an' I guess she'll be some 'feared. Will you put that thar under doc's pillow whar he kin find hit in the mawnin'? Hit'sa papah he sont me fer. Tell 'im I reckon hit's all straight. He kin see. Them people Cassandry was expectin' from Farington, did they come to-day?"
"Yas, they come. They're down to Miz Farwell's."
"Well, you tell doc 'at Azalie an' me, we'll be here 'long 'leven in the mawnin'." Hoke rode off under the winking stars, for the clouds after the long day of rain had lifted, and in the still night were rolling away over the mountain tops.
Aunt Sally slipped quietly back into the cabin and softly closed the door of the canvas room, lest the rustling of paper should waken her charge, for she meant to examine that paper, quite innocently, since she could neither read nor write, but out of sheer childish curiosity.
She need not have feared waking David, however, for, all his physical discomfort forgotten, dominated by the supreme happiness that possessed him, yet weak in body to the point of exhaustion, he slept profoundly and calmly on, even when she came stealthily and slipped the paper beneath his pillow, as Hoke had requested.
"Do you know, James," said Betty Towers, as she walked at her husband's side in the sweet morning, slowly climbing up to David's cabin from the Fall Place, "I feel almost vexed with you for never bringing me here before."
"Why—my dear!"
"Yes, I do. To think of all this loveliness, and for six years you have been here many times, and never once told me you knew a place hardly two hours away as entrancing as heaven. Even now, James, if it hadn't been for Cassandra, I wouldn't have come. Why—it's the loveliest spot on earth. Stand still a minute, James, and listen. That's a thrush. Oh, something smells so sweet! It's a locust! And that's a redbird's note. There he is, like a red blossom in those bushes. There—no, there. You will look in the wrong direction, James, and now he's gone. You remember what David Thryng wrote? 'It's good just to be alive.' He's always saying that, and now I understand—in such a place as this. Oh, just breathe the air, James!"
"I certainly can't help doing that, dear." The bishop was puffing a little over the climb his slight young wife took so easily.
"I don't care. Here I've lived in cities all my life, while you have lived down here, and it has lost its charm to you. Only think of all this gorgeous display of nature just for these mountain people, and what is it to them?"
"To them it's the natural order of things, just as you implied in regard to me."
"Hark, James. Now, that's a catbird!"
"And not a thrush?"
"The other was a thrush. I know the difference."
"Wise little woman! Come. There's that young mangetting up a fever by fretting. We said—I said we would come early."
"James, I'm going to stay up here and let you go to that stupid wedding down in Farington without me."
"Perhaps we may have something interesting up here, if you'll hurry a little."
"What is it, James?"
"I really can't say, dear." She took his hand, and they walked on.
"Wouldn't this be an ideal spot to spend a honeymoon? Hear that fall away down below us. How cool it sounds! Why don't you pay attention to me? What are you thinking about, James?"
"I am making a little poem for you, dear. Listen:—
"Chatter, chatter, little tongue,What a wonder how you're hung!Up above the epiglottis,Tied on with a little knot 'tis."
"Chatter, chatter, little tongue,What a wonder how you're hung!Up above the epiglottis,Tied on with a little knot 'tis."
"Chatter, chatter, little tongue,
What a wonder how you're hung!
Up above the epiglottis,
Tied on with a little knot 'tis."
"Only geniuses may be silly, James, but perhaps you can't help it. I think married people ought to establish the custom of sabbatical honeymoons to counteract the divorce habit. Suppose we set the example, now we have arrived at just the right time for one, and spend ours here."
"Anything you say, dear."
Being an absent-minded man, the bishop had fallen in the way of saying that, when, had he paused to think, he would have admitted that everything was made to bend to his will or wish by the spirited little being at his side. Moreover, being an absent-minded man, he drew her to him and kissed her. Aunt Sally, watching them from the cabin door, wondered if the bishop were going away on a journey, to leave his wife behind, for why else should he kiss her thus?
"Will you sit there on the rock and enjoy the mountains while I see how he is?" said the bishop.
So they parted at the door, and Aunt Sally brought her a chair and stood beside her, giving her every detail of the affair as far as she knew it. She sat bareheaded in the sun, to Sally's amazement, for she had her hat in her lap and could have worn it.
The wind blew wisps of her fine straight hair across her pink cheeks and in her eyes, as she gazed out upon the blue mountains and listened to Sally's tale of "How hit all come about." For Sally went back into the family history of the Teasleys, and the Caswells, and the Merlins, and the Farwells, until Betty forgot the flight of time and the bishop called her. Then she went in to see David.
He had worked his right hand free from its bandages and was able to lift it a little. She took it in hers, and looked brightly down at him.
"Why, Doctor Thryng, you look better than when you were in Farington! Doesn't he, James? Aunt Sally gave me to understand you were nearly dead."
David laughed happily. "I was, but I am very much alive now. I am to be married, Mrs. Towers; our wedding is to be quitecomme il faut. It is to be at high noon, and the ceremony performed by a bishop."
"James!" Betty dropped into a chair and looked helplessly at her husband. "You haven't your vestments here!"
"I have all I need, dear. You know, Doctor, from Mr. Belew's telegram we were led to expect—"
"A death instead of a wedding?" David finished.
Betty turned to him. "Why didn't you tell us when you were down? You never gave the slightest hint of your state of mind, and there I was with my heart aching for Cassandra, when you—you stood ready to save her. I'm so glad for Cassandra; I could hug you, Doctor Thryng." Suddenly she turned on her husband. "James! Have you thought of everything—all the consequences? What will his mother—and the family over in England say?"
James threw up his hand and laughed.
"Don't laugh, James. Have you thought this all out, Doctor? Are you sure you can make them understand over there? Won't they think this awfully irregular? Will they ever be reconciled? I know how they are. My father was English."
"They never need be reconciled. It's our affair, and there's nothing to call me back there to live. What I do, or whom I make my wife, is nothing to them. I may visit my mother, of course, but for the rest, they gave meup years ago, when I had no use for the life they mapped out for me. I have nothing to inherit there. It would go to my older brother, anyway. I may follow my own inclination—thank God! And as for it's being irregular—on the contrary—we are distinguished enough to have a bishop perform the ceremony. That will be considered a great thing at home—when they do come to hear of it."
"But it is very sudden, Doctor; I suppose that's why I said irregular." Betty Towers paused a moment with a little frown, then laughed outright. "Does Cassandra know she is to be married to-day?"
"She learned the fact yesterday—incidentally—bless her! and her only objection was a most feminine one. She had no proper dress. She said she was wearing her best when she found me and—but—I told her the trousseau was to come later."
Betty rose with impulsive importance. "Well, James, we've so little time, I must go and help her prepare. And you'll rest now, won't you, Doctor? You stay up here with him, James, and I'll find some way of sending your things up."
"Thar's Hoyle; he kin he'p a heap. He kin ride the mule an' tote anything ye like; and Marthy, I reckon ye kin git her up here on my horse—hit's thar at her place," said Sally, who had been standing in the doorway, keenly interested.
When they were alone she said to David: "Hit's a right quare way o' doin' things—gitt'n married in bed, but if Bishop Towahs do hit, hit sure must be all right—leastways Cassandry'll think so."
David took the superintendence of the arrangement of his cabin upon himself, and Hoke Belew, with the bishop's aid, carried out his directions. One side of his canvas room was rolled to the top, leaving the place open to the hills and the beauty without. His bed was placed so that he might face the open space, and that Cassandra could kneel at his right side. His writing-table, draped with a white cloth and covered with green hemlock boughs, formed the altar. It was all very quickly and simply done, and then David lay quiet, with closed eyes, listening to his musicians in the tree-tops, fluting their owngladness, while Hoke Belew went down below, and the bishop sat out on the rock and meditated.
Cassandra came up to the cabin alone and sat with David, while the bishop donned his priestly vestments, and the wedding procession wound slowly up the trail from the Fall Place, decorously and gravely, clad in their best. Azalea and Betty came, side by side, the mother rode Sally's speckled white horse, and little Hoyle ran on ahead; Hoke carried his baby in his arms. Behind them all rode Uncle Jerry Carew, full of the liveliest interest and curiosity.
Said David: "This is May-day. I know what they're doing at home now, if the weather will let them. They're having gay times with out-of-door fêtes. The country girls are wearing their prettiest gowns, and the men are wearing sprigs of May in their buttonholes. Where did you get your roses?"
"Azalie brought them."
"And who put them in your hair?"
"Mrs. Towahs did that. Do you like me this way, David?"
"You are the loveliest being my eyes ever rested on."
"This was my best dress last year. I did it up and mended it this morning. It's home-woven like the one I—like the other one you said you liked."
David smiled, looking up into the gray eyes with the green lights and blue depths in them. How serene and poised her manner was, on the verge of the momentous step she was about to take, while his own heart was beating high. He wondered if she really comprehended the change it was to make in her life, that she showed no apprehension or fear.
"Cassandra, do you realize that in fifteen minutes you will be my wife? It will be a great change for you, dearest. In spite of all I can do, you may be sad sometimes, and I may ask of you things you don't want to do."
"I've been sad already in my life, and done things I didn't want to do. I don't guess you could change that—only God could."
"And you don't feel in the least disturbed? Your heart doesn't beat any harder nor your breath come quicker? Tell me how you feel."
She smiled and drew a long breath. "I don't know how it is. Everything is right peaceful and sweet outside—the sky and the hills and all the birds—even the wind is still in the trees, like everything was waiting for something good to happen."
"In your heart it is sweet and peaceful, too, and waiting for something good to happen?"
"Yes, David."
"God forgive me if ever I fail you," he said, drawing her down to him. "God make me worthy of you."
Then the bishop entered, and the little procession followed, and gathered about while the solemn words of the service were uttered. Cassandra knelt at David's side, as together they partook of the bread and wine, and with the worn circlet of gold which had been tied to her father's little Greek books, they were pronounced man and wife. Then, rising from her knees, she bent and kissed David, the long first kiss of the wedded pair, and turned her gravely happy face to the bishop, who admitted to Betty afterward that he had never kissed a bride, other than his own, with such unalloyed satisfaction.
It was all over quickly, and Cassandra was standing in a new world. Her eyes shone with the love-light no longer held back and veiled. She accompanied them all to the door and parted from them, even her mother and little Hoyle, as a hostess parting from her guests. She would not allow any one to stay behind, for the wedding feast had been spread in her mother's house, and thither they repaired to eat, and talk everything over.
"Mother felt right bad to leave us alone. She meant to bring everything up and all eat together here, but I thought it would be better, just we two, and me to set things out for you. Lie quiet and close your eyes, David, and make out like you are sleeping while I do it."
With perfect contentment he obeyed, and lay watching her through half-closed lids. It was always the same vision. She moved between him and a halo of light that seemed to be a part of her and to go with her, now at his bedside, now bending before the fireplace. At last the small pine table, which had served as an altar, was set with their first meal. The home was established.
He opened his eyes and looked on the feast she had setbefore him. The pink rose was still in her hair, and one at her throat, and two perfect ones were in a glass near his plate. The table was drawn close to his bedside, and strawberries were upon it, and a glass pitcher of cream. There were white beaten biscuit, and tea—as he had made it for her so long ago on her first and only visit to his cabin when he was at home, so she had made it for him now. There were chicken and green peas, also.
"How quickly everything has happened! How perfect it all is! How did you get all these things together?"
So she told him where everything came from. "Mother churned the butter to have it right fresh, and she left it without salt for you, like you said you used to have it in England. Uncle Jerry brought the peas from his garden, and he shelled them himself. I made the biscuit this morning, and Aunt Sally fried the chicken when she came down, and Azalie prepared the peas, and we kept them all hot in the fireplace, theirs down there, and ours up here." Cassandra laughed merrily. "I reckon it looked funny. Every one carried something when they came up. Hoyle had the peas in a tin pail, and mother rode Aunt Sally's Speckle and carried the biscuit in a pan on front. Shut your eyes and you can see them come that way, David, while I sit here with you, talking and feeling that happy. Don't try to use your right hand that way; I can see it hurts you. Let me go on feeding you like I am. Don't I do it right?"
"Perfectly, but I want you to bring that cushion over here and put it under my pillow so you won't have to lift my head. That's right. Now I want to see you eat. You can't feed me and yourself at the same time. You won't? Then we'll take it turn about."
"How have you managed these days? Did Aunt Sally feed you? Oh, I don't believe you ate anything. You couldn't, could you?"
She spoke so sadly, he laughed. "It's a lucky thing you sent for the bishop instead of the doctor, or I would have had no wife and would have starved to death. I couldn't have survived another day."
Again she laughed out, as she seemed so suddenly to have learned to do. "And I would have stayed away and letyou starve to death? You must open your mouth, David, and not try to talk now."
"Ah, no, that's enough. We've a thousand things to say and plans to make. You eat while I talk. When I am up, we must find some one to stay with your mother. She should not be left alone." Cassandra paled a little. He was watching her face. "You will be staying up here with me, you know, all the time."
"Yes—I know." Her throat seemed to tighten, and she looked off toward the hills, as her way was.
"Don't you like the thought of staying up here with me? Make your confession, dearest one." He drew her down to look in his eyes. "It's done. We are man and wife."
Her eyes swam with tears, but her lips smiled. "I do. I do want to bide with you. All the way before me now looks like a long path of light—like what I have dreamed sometimes when the moon shines long down the mists at night. Only one place—I can't quite see—is it shadow or not. Perhaps it's only the thought of mother down there alone."
She spoke dreamily and with the same look of seeing things beyond, except that now she fixed her eyes, not on the mountain top, but on his own.
"Is it in my eyes you see the long path of light? Are we together in it? I see you always with the light about you. I saw you so first in your own home before the blazing fire—such a hearth fire as I had never seen before. You have appeared to me in my dreams with light about you ever since, and in my visions when I have been riding over these hills alone. What are you seeing now?"
"You, as you helped me that first time, there in the snow. You looked so ill, but your way was strong, and I thought—all at once, in a flash—like it came from—"
"Go on."
"Like it came from my father: 'One will come for you.'" She hid her face in his bosom, and her words came smothered and brokenly, "All the ride home I put them away, but they would come back, his words: 'On the mountain top, one will come for you'; but we were in such trouble—I thought it was just the thought of my father. It's always strongest when trouble comes, like he would comfort me."
"Don't you have it also when happiness comes to you, as on this morning while we waited together?"
"No great happiness like this ever came before. I have been glad, like when mother said I might go to Farington to school; and when I knelt and was confirmed, I was glad then. The first gladness I can remember was when my father used to carry me in his arms up and down his path and repeat strange poetry to me. When you are well, we will go there, won't we?"
"Yes, dearest; but didn't the remembrance come to you just now, when you saw the long path of light before us?"
"I think no, David. I'm afraid I forgot every one but you then, when you asked would I like to bide here with you; and the long path of light was our love—for it reaches up to heaven, doesn't it, David?"
"It reaches to heaven, Cassandra."
Then they were silent, for there was no more to say.
Midsummer arrived, and David, healed of his wounds, pronounced himself as "strong as a cricketer." What he meant by that Hoyle could only conjecture, and, after much pondering, decided that his strength was now so great that should he desire to do so, he could leap into the air or jump long distances after the manner of crickets.
"You reckon you could jump as fer in one jump now as from here to t'other side the water trough yandah?" he asked one day, as they sat on the porch steps together.
"No, I don't reckon so," said David, laughing.
"Well, could you jump ovah this here house and the loom shed in one jump?"
"I don't reckon so."
"Be sensible, honey son. You mustn't 'low him to ax ye fool questions, Doctah. You knows they hain't nobody kin do such as that, Hoyle," called his mother from within.
"He has some idea in his head. What is it, brother Hoyle?"
"I heered you tellin' Cass 'at you was gettin' strong as one o' these here cricket bugs, an' I had one t'other day; he could jump as fer as cl'ar acrost the po'ch—and he was only 'bout a inch long—er less 'n a inch. I thought if brothah David was that strong, he could jump a heap."
David had comforted Hoyle for the loss of Cassandra from the home by explaining that they were now become brothers for the rest of their lives, and in order to give this assurance appreciable significance, he had taken the small chap to the circus and had treated him to pink lemonade and a toy balloon.
They had remained over until the next day, and Doctor Bartlett and David had examined him all over at the old physician's office and then had gone into a little room by themselves and stayed a long time, leaving him outside.Then, to compensate for such gross neglect, David had taken him to a clothing store and bought him a complete suit of store clothing, very neat and pretty. Hoyle would have been in the seventh heaven over all this, were it not, alas! that there the child for the first time in his life looked into a mirror that revealed him to himself from head to foot, little wry neck, hunched back and all.
David, not realizing this was a revelation to the little man, wondered, as they walked away, that all his enthusiasm and exuberance of spirits had left him, and that he walked at his side wearily and sadly silent. His pathetic little legs spindled down from the smart new trousers, and his hands dangled weakly from his thin wrists, albeit his fingers clung tightly to his toy balloon.
"We're going back to the bishop's now, and we'll have a good dinner, and then you'll have a whole hour to play with Dorothy before we leave for home," said David, cheeringly. The child made no response other than to slip his hand into David's. "What are you thinking about, brother Hoyle?"
"Jest nothin'. I war a-wonderin'."
"Oh, there is a difference? What were you wondering?"
"Maw told me if you war that good to take me to a circus, I mustn't bothah you with a heap o' questions 'at wa'n't no good."
"That's all right. I'm questioning you now."
"What war you an' that old man feelin' me all ovah for? War you tryin' to make out hu' come my hade is sot like this-a-way? Reckon you r'aly could set hit straight an' get this 'er lump off'n my back?"
"Don't worry about your head and your back. You have a very good head. That's more than some can say."
"I nevah see nary othah boy like I be. You reckon that li'l' girl, she thought I war quare?"
"What little girl?"
"Mrs. Towahs's li'l' girl. She said 'turn roun',' an' when I done hit, she said 'turn roun' agin.' Then she said, 'Whyn't you hol' your hade like I do?'"
"What did you say?"
"Didn't say nothin.' Jes' axed her whyn't she hol' her head like I did? an' she said, 'Don't want to.' SoI said, 'Don't want to.'" He twisted his head about to look up in David's face, and his lips smiled, but in his eyes was a suspicion of tears. His heart heavy for the child, David praised him for a brave little chap, comforting him as best he could.
"You reckon she'd like me if I war to give her this here balloon?"
"No, you take that home to sister. The little girl can get one when the circus comes again." But after dinner, David did not send Hoyle off to play the hour with Dorothy. He took her on his knee and entertained them both with tales and mimicry until he had them in gales of laughter, and for the time being Hoyle forgot his troubles.
As the days passed, David became more and more interested in his patch of ground and the growing things in his garden. Never had he labored with his hands in this fashion, and each night he lay down to sleep physically weary, in contentment of spirit. Steadily he progressed toward the desired goal of health. In his young wife, also, he found a rich satisfaction, watching her unfold and blossom into the gracious wifehood and ladyhood he had dreamed of for her.
Together they used to stroll to the little farm, where she told him all she knew about the crops—what was best for the animals, and what would be needed for themselves. Long before David was able to oversee the work himself, she had set Elwine Timms to sowing cow-peas and planting corn.
"Behold your heritage!" David said to her one morning, as they strolled thus among the thrifty greenness and patches of vetch where the cow was contentedly feeding. He laughed joyously and drew his wife's arm through his. She looked up at him wistfully. He thought she sighed, and bent his head to listen. "What was that little sound?"
"I was only thinking."
"We'll sit here where we sat that morning when we both put our hands to the plough, and you tell me what you were thinking."
"I ought not to stop now, David. I've left all for mother to do. I was that busy at the cabin I didn't get down to her this morning."
"You can't keep two homes going with only your own two dear hands, Cassandra. It must be stopped. We'll find some one to live with your mother and take your place." She gave a little gasp, then sat silently, her hands dropped passively in her lap, and he thought she seemed sad. He took her face between his hands and made her look into his eyes. "Don't be worried, sweetheart; we'll make a few changes. You're mine now, you know—not only to serve me and labor for me as you have been doing all these weeks, but—"
"But I like it, David. I like doing for you. I hope it may always be so I can do for you."
"Would you like me to become an invalid again so you could keep on in the way you began?"
"Not that—but sometimes I think what if you shouldn't really need me!" She hid her face on his breast. "I—I want you to need me—David!" It was almost like a cry for help, as she said it.
"Dear heart, dear heart! What are you thinking and fearing? Can't you understand? You are mine now, to be cared for and loved and held very near and dear to my heart. We are no more twain, we are one."
"Yes, but—but—David, I—I want you to need me," she sobbed, and he knew some thought was stirring in her heart which she could not yet put into words. He comforted her and soothed her, explaining certain plans which later he put into execution, so that her duties at the Fall Place were brought to an end and he could have her always with him.
A daughter of her Uncle Cotton, who had gone down into South Carolina to live, was induced to come and stay with the widow, and the girl's brother came with her and helped David on the farm.
Then David made changes in and about his cabin. He built on another room and put therein a cook stove. He could not bear to see his young wife bending at the hearth preparing their meals, and when she demurred, he explained that he wished to keep her as she was and not see her growing old and wrinkled before her time, with the burning heat of the open fire in her face, like many of the mountain women.
One evening,—they had eaten their supper out underthe trees,—she proposed they should walk up to her father's path, as she called the spot toward which she so often lifted her eyes, and David was well pleased to go with her. As they set out, she asked him to wait a moment while she went back for something, and quickly returned, bringing his flute.
"I've often wished father could have heard you play on this," she said, as he took it from her hand.
They crossed the little river that tumbled and rushed among great moss-covered boulders on its way to the fall, and followed its wayward course toward its head, where the way was untrodden and wild, as if no human foot had ever climbed along its banks. After a little they turned off toward a tremendous rock of solid granite that had been cleft smoothly in twain by some gigantic force of nature, and, walking between the towering walls of stone, came out on the farther side upon a small level space, where immense ferns and flags grew thickly in the rich soil, held in place and kept damp by the great cool masses of stone.
Above this little dell the hill rose steeply, and Cassandra led him to a narrow opening in the dense shrubbery surrounding the spot from which a beaten path wound upward, overarched with thickly interlacing branches of birch wood and hemlocks. Along this winding trail they climbed, until they reached a cluster of enormous cedars which made the dark place on the mountain Cassandra had pointed out to him from below. Here the path widened so they could walk side by side, and continued along a level line at the foot of the dark mass of trees.
"Here father used to walk up and down reading in his little books; seems like I can hear his voice now. Sometimes he would look off over the valley below us there and repeat parts by heart. Isn't it beautiful here, David?"
"Heavenly beautiful!"
"I'm glad we never came here before."
"Why, dearest?"
"Because." She hesitated with parted lips, and cheeks flushed from the climb. David stood with bared head. He felt as if he were in a cathedral.
"And why because?" he asked again.
"For now we bring just happiness with us. We're nottroubled or wondering about anything. No sorrow comes with us. In our hearts we are sure—sure—" She paused again and lifted her eyes to his.
"Sure that all is right when we belong to each other—this way?"
"Yes, sure! Oh, David, sure—sure!" She threw her arms about his neck and drew his face down to hers. "It's even a greater happiness than when he used to carry me in his arms here. There's no sorrow near us. It's all far away."
Thus, sometimes she would throw off all the habitual reserve of her manner and open her heart to him, following the rich impulses of her nature to their glorious revelation.
"Now, David, sit here and play; play your flute as you did that first time when I learned who made the music that I thought must be the 'Voices,' that time I climbed up to see."
They sat under the great cedars on a bank of moss, and David took the flute from her hand, smiling as he thought of that moment when he had stood among the blossoming laurel and watched her as she moved about his cabin, the day before his hurt, and how she had kissed it.