She looked at him
more closely. He was, in spite of his long silken mustache, so absurdly
young; he might, in spite of that youth, be so absurdly man-like! What
was he doing there? Was he a farmer's son, an artist, a surveyor, or a
city clerk out for a holiday? Was there perhaps a youthful female of his
species somewhere for whom he was waiting and upon whose tryst she was
now breaking? Was he--terrible thought!--the outlying picket of some
family picnic? His dress, neat, simple, free from ostentatious ornament,
betrayed nothing. She waited for his voice.
"Oh, you have left San Mateo miles away to the right," he said with
quick youthful sympathy, "at least five miles! Where did you leave your
party?"
His voice was winning, and even refined, she thought. She answered it
quite spontaneously: "At a fork of two roads. I see now I took the wrong
turning."
"Yes, you took the road to Crystal Spring. It's just down there in the
valley, not more than a mile. You'd have been there now if you hadn't
turned off at the woods."
"I couldn't help it, it was so beautiful."
"Isn't it?"
"Perfect."
"And such shadows, and such intensity of color."
"Wonderful!--and all along the ridge, looking down that defile!"
"Yes, and that point where it seems as if you had only to stretch out
your hand to pick a manzanita berry from the other side of the canyon,
half a mile across!"
"Yes, and that first glimpse of the valley through the Gothic gateway of
rocks!"
"And the color of those rocks,--cinnamon and bronze with the light green
of the Yerba buena vine splashing over them.
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