"Where you going to?" he asked.
"Why--Mr. Harney's starting earlier than usual today," she answered.
"Mr. Harney, Mr. Harney? Ain't Mr. Harney learned how to drive a horse
yet?"
She made no answer, and he sat tilted back in his chair, drumming on the
rail of the porch. It was the first time he had ever spoken of the young
man in that tone, and Charity felt a faint chill of apprehension. After
a moment he stood up and walked away toward the bit of ground behind the
house, where the hired man was hoeing.
The air was cool and clear, with the autumnal sparkle that a north wind
brings to the hills in early summer, and the night had been so still
that the dew hung on everything, not as a lingering moisture, but in
separate beads that glittered like diamonds on the ferns and grasses. It
was a long drive to the foot of Porcupine: first across the valley, with
blue hills bounding the open slopes; then down into the beech-woods,
following the course of the Creston, a brown brook leaping over velvet
ledges; then out again onto the farm-lands about Creston Lake, and
gradually up the ridges of the Eagle Range.
Pages:
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85