Mary was in just the fettle Margaret had surmised. Discovering Ned busy at his binders, she had lured him with her call. In a moment he was with her and gathered her into his arms. About them flowed the light of the moon, bathing tree trunks and leaves and the rippling wheat in its soft, red shine."See her!" cried the girl, pointing to the glowing orb veiled in its tracery of leaves and limbs. "Have you ever seen her so benign?""Never!" cried Ned happily. "To-night she is witching. She is painting you with her dainty rouge, face and lips, and this soft, brown hair. In your eyes her light of wonderful old rose is the light of dear desire.""Evidently she holds a spell," teased Mary, "and does not scruple to throw dream stuff into the foolish eyes of young farmers.""What an occult magician she is!" cried Ned delightedly, abandoning himself to the deceit of the moment. "She has everything about us revelling. The little winds are flirting scandalously with your curls and there is a whispering music out there in the moving grain. There are voices in the wheat that haunt me. Often have I dreamed of them but never have I caught their singing until now. Something tells me you understand—you favourite sorceress of rose-light moons.""This is our mad-moon, Ned," laughed Mary softly. "I begin to feel the strange thrill of its lunacy. This old-rose light is a glamourous thing. Put your cheek against mine, dear pal, and I'll whisper to you the secret that is throbbing in the heart of our wonderful Knight."His voices come sweetly in stealing from very far and in all their singing there is a tender tale they tell of kind eyes that glanced upon him one great day and of a gentle hand that plucked him out of the wilds and set his roots in the wise hearts of men. With a million, adoring tongues he is hymning to-night the tender spirit of Kitty Belaire. Hark to the legends he sings of the coming days! One beautiful noon your father, Ned, told me a remarkable thing. 'The Red Knight,' said he, 'will push the grain belt three hundred miles nearer the poles.' It is of this The Red Knight is whispering now. His prophetic voices are winging in from everywhere and they tell of a wondrous host trekking the illimitable plains of this magic North. Listen, Ned, and you will hear their tramp through the enchanting glow of our mad rose moon.""I can hear it, Mary!" was the hushed reply as he nestled the brown head close. "And in all the tramping of the countless feet I hear a fairy patter like the sound of falling leaves. Are they the fragile feet of the fairy children flitting to us out of the infinite?""Ned, my Ned!" was the endearing cry. "The Red Knight is singing of the homes he will build in his gardens of wheat, of the tiny fairies, the little children of the plains who shall play in his gardens—in your garden, Ned, and mine."Ned's answer was the drawing tight of his great arms and the sheltering crush of his mightier love.A mist crept over Mary's eyes. Looking through the glad tears she whispered:"It is the 'bestest' year we have ever seen, both for us and for—them."Over all rose the moon, now white and serene, pouring upon them the silver light of her purity.Printed in the United States of America*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE VALLEY OF GOLD***
Mary was in just the fettle Margaret had surmised. Discovering Ned busy at his binders, she had lured him with her call. In a moment he was with her and gathered her into his arms. About them flowed the light of the moon, bathing tree trunks and leaves and the rippling wheat in its soft, red shine.
"See her!" cried the girl, pointing to the glowing orb veiled in its tracery of leaves and limbs. "Have you ever seen her so benign?"
"Never!" cried Ned happily. "To-night she is witching. She is painting you with her dainty rouge, face and lips, and this soft, brown hair. In your eyes her light of wonderful old rose is the light of dear desire."
"Evidently she holds a spell," teased Mary, "and does not scruple to throw dream stuff into the foolish eyes of young farmers."
"What an occult magician she is!" cried Ned delightedly, abandoning himself to the deceit of the moment. "She has everything about us revelling. The little winds are flirting scandalously with your curls and there is a whispering music out there in the moving grain. There are voices in the wheat that haunt me. Often have I dreamed of them but never have I caught their singing until now. Something tells me you understand—you favourite sorceress of rose-light moons."
"This is our mad-moon, Ned," laughed Mary softly. "I begin to feel the strange thrill of its lunacy. This old-rose light is a glamourous thing. Put your cheek against mine, dear pal, and I'll whisper to you the secret that is throbbing in the heart of our wonderful Knight.
"His voices come sweetly in stealing from very far and in all their singing there is a tender tale they tell of kind eyes that glanced upon him one great day and of a gentle hand that plucked him out of the wilds and set his roots in the wise hearts of men. With a million, adoring tongues he is hymning to-night the tender spirit of Kitty Belaire. Hark to the legends he sings of the coming days! One beautiful noon your father, Ned, told me a remarkable thing. 'The Red Knight,' said he, 'will push the grain belt three hundred miles nearer the poles.' It is of this The Red Knight is whispering now. His prophetic voices are winging in from everywhere and they tell of a wondrous host trekking the illimitable plains of this magic North. Listen, Ned, and you will hear their tramp through the enchanting glow of our mad rose moon."
"I can hear it, Mary!" was the hushed reply as he nestled the brown head close. "And in all the tramping of the countless feet I hear a fairy patter like the sound of falling leaves. Are they the fragile feet of the fairy children flitting to us out of the infinite?"
"Ned, my Ned!" was the endearing cry. "The Red Knight is singing of the homes he will build in his gardens of wheat, of the tiny fairies, the little children of the plains who shall play in his gardens—in your garden, Ned, and mine."
Ned's answer was the drawing tight of his great arms and the sheltering crush of his mightier love.
A mist crept over Mary's eyes. Looking through the glad tears she whispered:
"It is the 'bestest' year we have ever seen, both for us and for—them."
Over all rose the moon, now white and serene, pouring upon them the silver light of her purity.
Printed in the United States of America
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE VALLEY OF GOLD***