"I hope you will,"
he answered.
There was no reply.
He straightened up and looked around.
She was gone.
For some time, he stood searching the glade with his eyes, carefully;
listening to catch a sound--a puzzled, baffled look upon his face. Taking
his things, at last, he started up the little path. But before he reached
the old gate, a low laugh caused him to whirl quickly about.
There she stood, beside the spring--a teasing smile on her face. Before he
could command himself, she danced a step or two, with an elfish air, and
slipped away through the green willow wall. Another merry laugh came back
to him and then--the silence of the little glade, and the sound of the
distant waters.
With the basket of fish in his hand, Aaron King went slowly to camp;
where, when Conrad Lagrange saw what the artist carried so carefully,
explanations were in order.
Chapter XVIII
Sibyl Andres and the Butterflies
On the following day, the artist was putting away his things, at the close
of the afternoon's work, when the girl appeared.
The long, slanting bars of sunshine and the deepening shadows marked the
lateness of the hour. As he bent over his paint-box, the man was thinking
with regret that she would not come--that, perhaps, she would never come.
Pages:
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253