So they sang together thus in pretty rivalry, the birds and Diana,
until, her song ended, I went my way and presently found her beside
the bubbling rill, combing out her shining hair. At sight of me she
laughed and, tossing back her tresses, flourished her comb in a sweep
that took in radiant sky, earth and sparkling brook.
"O Peregrine, ain't it glorious!" she cried.
"It is!" said I, staring at her loveliness, whereupon she flushed and
recommenced combing her hair.
"Thought you was asleep an' snoring," said she in her most ungracious
manner.
"Well, you see I'm not, and besides I don't snore!"
"Tush, how can you know?"
"I don't think I do--and for heaven's sake why talk of such things on
such a morning, Diana?"
"Because!" she answered, turning away.
"Because of what?" I demanded, grasping a silky handful of her glossy
hair. "Why are you so ungracious to me lately; why do you do and say
things that you imagine will make me think you hard and unlovely; why
do you try to shock me so often?"
"I don't! How?"
"By pretending to be trivial and shallow and commonplace."
"Because I am!"
"Don't blaspheme, Diana. How could you be shallow or commonplace, you
who taught me to love the Silent Places? So why attempt things so
impossible, dear child?" And taking hold of her smooth, round chin I
turned her head that she must look at me. "Why, Diana, why?" I
repeated. For a moment she met my look, then her lids fluttered and
fell.
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