Never had
anything so lovely been heard; it was the music that had for so
long been shut up in the soul of the sighing reed and was set free
at last through its pain and suffering.
I had heard the Story Girl tell many a more dramatic tale; but
that one stands out for me in memory above them all, partly,
perhaps, because of the spot in which she told it, partly because
it was the last one I was to hear her tell for many years--the
last one she was ever to tell me on the golden road.
When Uncle Blair had finished his sketch the shafts of sunshine
were turning crimson and growing more and more remote; the early
autumn twilight was falling over the woods. We left our dell,
saying good-bye to it for ever, as the Story Girl had suggested,
and we went slowly homeward through the fir woods, where a
haunting, indescribable odour stole out to meet us.
"There is magic in the scent of dying fir," Uncle Blair was saying
aloud to himself, as if forgetting he was not quite alone. "It
gets into our blood like some rare, subtly-compounded wine, and
thrills us with unutterable sweetnesses, as of recollections from
some other fairer life, lived in some happier star. Compared to
it, all other scents seem heavy and earth-born, luring to the
valleys instead of the heights.
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