He received the
message as if it were to himself alone. As he listened, his eyes
brightened; he stood erect, his face turned upward toward the mountain
peaks in the distance; his lips curved in a slow smile. He fancied that he
could see the girl's winsome face lighted with merriment as she played,
knowing his surprise. Once, he started impulsively toward the door, but
paused, hesitating, and turned back. When the music ceased, he went to the
open window that looked out into the rose garden, and watched expectantly.
Presently, he heard her low-voiced song as she came through the orange
grove beyond the Ragged Robin hedge. Then he glimpsed her white dress at
the little gate in the corner. Then she stood in full view.
The artist had, so far, seen Sibyl only in her mountain costume of soft
brown,--made for rough contact with rocks and underbrush,--with felt hat
to match, and high, laced boots, fit for climbing. She was dressed, now,
as Conrad Lagrange had seen her that first time in the garden, when he was
hiding from Louise Taine. The man at the window drew a little back, with a
low exclamation of pleased surprise and wonder. Was that lovely creature
there among the roses his girl comrade of the hills? The Sibyl Andres he
had known--in the short skirt and high boots of her mountain garb--was a
winsome, fanciful, sometimes serious, sometimes wayward, maiden.
Pages:
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327