'Twas an alien
place, full of weird, evasive enchantment and magicry.
Only in the country can one become truly acquainted with the
night. There it has the solemn calm of the infinite. The dim
wide fields lie in silence, wrapped in the holy mystery of
darkness. A wind, loosened from wild places far away, steals out
to blow over dewy, star-lit, immemorial hills. The air in the
pastures is sweet with the hush of dreams, and one may rest here
like a child on its mother's breast.
"Isn't it wonderful?" breathed the Story Girl as we went down the
long hill. "Do you know, I can forgive Sara Ray now. I thought
tonight I never could--but now it doesn't matter any more. I can
even see how funny it was. Oh, wasn't it funny? 'DEAD' in that
squeaky little voice of Sara's! I'll just behave to her tomorrow
as if nothing had happened. It seems so long ago now, here in the
night."
Neither of us ever forgot the subtle delight of that stolen walk.
A spell of glamour was over us. The breezes whispered strange
secrets of elf-haunted glens, and the hollows where the ferns grew
were brimmed with mystery and romance. Ghostlike scents crept out
of the meadows to meet us, and the fir wood before we came to the
church was a living sweetness of Junebells growing in abundance.
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