The moist fragrance of
the earth at twilight, the sad pipings of birds by the wayside, the
faint, clear notes of a wood-thrush-his favorite-from the edge of
the forest, even the mid-air song of a meadow-lark above his head,
were unheeded as, with face haggard with thought and travel, he
turned doggedly from the road and up the mountain toward
Easter's home. The novelty and ethnological zeal that had blinded
him to the disagreeable phases of mountain life were gone; so was
the pedestal from which he had descended to make a closer study
of the people. For he felt now that he had gone among them with
an unconscious condescension; his interest seemed now to have
been little more than curiosity-a pastime to escape brooding over
his own change of fortune. And with Easter-ah, how painfully
clear his mental vision had grown! Was it the tragedy of wasting
possibilities that had drawn him to her-to help her-or was it his
own miserable selfishness, after all?
No one was visible when he reached the cabin. The calm of mountain and sky enthralled it as completely as the cliff that towered behind it. The day still lingered, and the sunlight rested lightly on each neighboring crest. As he stepped upon the porch there was a slight noise within the cabin, and, peering into the dark interior, he called Easter's name.
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