But
civilization had thwarted her purposes, belittled her expression of
them. Environment had driven her into grooves of convention. Here at
last she was free.
And she was amazingly, radiantly happy. What did motor-cars or
wine-suppers or Paris gowns matter? They were the trappings that
stressed her slavery. Here she moved beside her mate without fear or
doubt in a world wonderful. Eye to eye, they spoke the truth to each
other after the fashion of brave, simple souls.
Glowing from the ice-cold bath of water from a mountain stream, she
stepped down the slope into a slant of sunshine to join Clay. He
looked up from the fire and waved a spoon gayly at her. For he too was
as jocund as the day which stood tiptoe on the misty mountain-tops.
They had come into the hills to spend their honeymoon alone together,
and life spoke to him in accents wholly joyous.
The wind and sun caressed her. As she moved toward him, a breath of
the morning flung the gown about her so that each step modeled anew the
slender limbs.
Her husband watched the girl streaming down the slope. Love swift as
old wine flooded his veins. He rose, caught her to him, and looked
down into the deep, still eyes that were pools of happiness.
"Are you glad--glad all through, sweetheart?" he demanded.
A little laugh welled from her throat. She gave him a tender, mocking
smile.
"I hope heaven's like this," she whispered.
"You don't regret New York--not a single, hidden longing for it 'way
down deep in yore heart?"
She shook her head.
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