(Reading time: 13 - 25 minutes)
The Mountain Girl
The Mountain Girl

the night and the running water fell on his ear—sounds deliciously sweet and thrilling, filling all the air, mingling with the rushing of the fall and accenting its flow. From whence did they come—those new sounds? He had never heard them before. Did they drop from the sky—from the stars twinkling brightly down on him—now faint and far as if born in heaven—now near and clear—silvery clear and strong and sweet—penetrating his very soul and making every nerve quiver to their pulsating rhythm? He felt a certain fear of a new kind creep tinglingly through him, holding him cold and still—for the moment breathless. Was she there? Had she died, and was this her spirit trying to speak?

  

Very quietly he drew nearer to the great rock. Yes, she was there, standing with her back to the silvery gray bole of the holly tree, her face lifted toward the mountain top and her expression rapt and listening—holy and pure—far removed from him as was the star above the peak toward which her gaze was turned. He could not touch her, nor crush her to him as a moment before he had felt he must, but he slowly approached.

  

She heard his step and then saw him waiting there in the dim light of the starry dusk. For an instant she regarded him in silence, then she essayed to speak, but her lips only trembled over the words voicelessly. He could not see her emotion, but he felt it, although her stillness made her seem calm. Hungrily he stood and watched her. At last she spoke:—

  

"Why, Frale, Frale!"

  

"Hit's me, Cass."

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