hand quickly across her eyes, and knew she had been weeping. He was ashamed to stand there watching her, but he could not move. Always, it seemed to him, she was being presented to him thus strongly against a surrounding halo of light, revealing every gracious line of her figure and her sweet, clean profile.
He turned his eyes away, but as quickly gazed again; she had disappeared. He waited, and again she passed between his eyes and the light, here and there, moving quietly about, seeing that all was in order, as her custom was when she knew him to be absent.
He saw her brushing about the hearth, carefully wiping the dust from his disordered table, lifting the books, touching everything tenderly and lightly. His flute lay there. She took it in her hands and looked down at it solemnly, then slowly raised it to her lips. What? Was she going to try to play upon it? No, but she kissed it. Again and again she kissed the slender, magic wand, hurriedly, then laid it very gently down and with one backward glance walked swiftly out of the cabin and away from him, down the trail, with long, easy steps. Only once more she drew her hand across her eyes, and with head held high moved rapidly on. Never did she look to the right or the left or she must have seen him as he stood, scarcely breathing and hard beset to hold himself back and allow her to pass him thus.
Now he knew that she had been deeply stirred by him, and the revelation fell upon his spirit, filling him with a joy more intense than anything he had ever felt or experienced before, so poignantly sweet that it hurt him. Had he indeed entered into