She
knew that there was evil in the world; but she knew it from books and
not from life. Her path had fallen in pleasant places, and only
benignant spirits attended her.
She was roused suddenly by the sound of steps in the path beneath. This
twilight sanctuary had never been invaded before, and she rose hastily.
The course of an irregular path that followed the lake was broken here
by the creek's miniature chasm, but adventurous pedestrians might gain
the top and continue over a rough rustic bridge along the edge of Mrs.
Owen's cornfield. Sylvia peered down, expecting to see Marian or
Blackford, but a stranger was approaching, catching at bushes to
facilitate his ascent. Sylvia stepped back, assuming it to be a cottager
who had lost his way. A narrow-brimmed straw hat rose above the
elderberry bushes, and with a last effort the man stood on level ground,
panting from the climb. He took off his hat and mopped his face as he
glanced about. Sylvia had drawn back, but as the stranger could not go
on without seeing her she stepped forward, and they faced each other, in
a little plot of level ground beside the defile.
"Pardon me!" he exclaimed, still breathing hard; and then his eyes met
hers in a long gaze. His gray eyes searched her dark ones for what
seemed an interminable time. Sylvia's hand sought the maple but did not
touch it; and the keen eyes of the stranger did not loosen their hold of
hers.
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