She had lived all her life among people whose sensibilities
seemed to have withered for lack of use; and more wonderful, at first,
than Harney's endearments were the words that were a part of them. She
had always thought of love as something confused and furtive, and he
made it as bright and open as the summer air.
On the morrow of the day when she had shown him the way to the deserted
house he had packed up and left Creston River for Boston; but at the
first station he had jumped on the train with a hand-bag and scrambled
up into the hills. For two golden rainless August weeks he had camped in
the house, getting eggs and milk from the solitary farm in the valley,
where no one knew him, and doing his cooking over a spirit-lamp. He got
up every day with the sun, took a plunge in a brown pool he knew of, and
spent long hours lying in the scented hemlock-woods above the house, or
wandering along the yoke of the Eagle Ridge, far above the misty blue
valleys that swept away east and west between the endless hills.
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