But the tang of the fir summons
onward and upward to some 'far-off, divine event'--some spiritual
peak of attainment whence we shall see with unfaltering, unclouded
vision the spires of some aerial City Beautiful, or the fulfilment
of some fair, fadeless land of promise."
He was silent for a moment, then added in a lower tone,
"Felicity, you loved the scent of dying fir. If you were here
tonight with me--Felicity--Felicity!"
Something in his voice made me suddenly sad. I was comforted when
I felt the Story Girl slip her hand into mine. So we walked out
of the woods into the autumn dusk.
We were in a little valley. Half-way up the opposite slope a
brush fire was burning clearly and steadily in a maple grove.
There was something indescribably alluring in that fire, glowing
so redly against the dark background of forest and twilit hill.
"Let us go to it," cried Uncle Blair, gaily, casting aside his
sorrowful mood and catching our hands. "A wood fire at night has
a fascination not to be resisted by those of mortal race. Hasten--
we must not lose time."
"Oh, it will burn a long time yet," I gasped, for Uncle Blair was
whisking us up the hill at a merciless rate.
"You can't be sure. It may have been lighted by some good, honest
farmer-man, bent on tidying up his sugar orchard, but it may also,
for anything we know, have been kindled by no earthly woodman as a
beacon or summons to the tribes of fairyland, and may vanish away
if we tarry.
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