The Hood River glacier. (Hood River, Or.) 1889-1933, 1902-05-16
CHAPTER VIII.

Both Miss Lacroix and myself waited
impatiently for news from Freeman in
London. From day to day expected
letter; and day after day, when l met
her either in Jacques's cottage or in
the little clough beyond Timperley
Hall, l had to tell her that no letter
had come. She quickly began to show
signs OF that heart sickness, which in
the young is SO ready to follow upon
the steady, indefinite postponement Of
hope. In my efforts to encourage her
l encouraged myself also to believe
that an 0verruling Power was holding
this mystery in hand for some great
purpose, only to reveal it eventually
with the more force and effect.
One evening when l met her in the
clough we were both startled and
silenced by the clear, full note of a
bird--a liquid 'ioug-Joug."
rs it thrush?" | said in whisper.
She listened breathless, almost pant
ing, with joy.
"Oh," she whispered, at length, "it
is nightingale-it is a nightingale"
and, poor girl, she actually sobbed.
"How can the dear little bird have got
so far out of its way as this dreadful
placer"
After a rapt attention of some min
utes to the ravishing song, both of us
were impelled to go away to tell others
of our delight. The path out of the
clough led along the ridge behind Tim
perley, past two or three neat little
houses. From one of these we were
surprised, as we approached, to hear
music and singing of an unusually fine
quality. 1t was just growing dark; a
lamp shone out from a window, over
which the blind was not yet drawn,
and we could plainly see man seated
at the piano, and girl, slight and
small of figure, standing with her hand
on his shoulder. She sang in voice
clear and sweet as birds, song then
much in vogue, called "Ehren on the
Rhine" AS we passed the song ended,
and the player turned; we saw his face,
and each exclaimed to the other, "Why,
it's Frank" So here dwelt the reason
of his indifference to Louise's beauty
and sad grace
ooh, what would his father say, if
he knew' exclaimed Louise, in alarm.
al don't think we'll tell him,
said |.
was that night more cheerful and
hopeful than l had been since my COM
ing to Timperley. l was not addicted
to writing letters to the newspapers,
but the presence in that district of the
little bird of song, that usually sug-
gested soft, clear skies and scented
groves, was so extraordinary, and
seemed to me so delightful, that l sat
down and wrote letter concerning the
phenomenon to daily paper of some
Importance published in the neighbor-
ing large town. The paper, l knew,
was widely read, but had not reck-
oned upon my letter attracting such at
tention as it did. The second night
after | had written it men and women
of all conditions, but chiefly of the
working class, we're lnqulring their way
through the village, or finding their
way along all the roads and lanes to
"the Nightingale Clcugh." The small
weekly papers of course copied the let
ter, and on Saturday and during the
following week parties came from long
distances in buses and vans to hear the
nightingale sing. | went first one
night, and then another, and another
20 see the crowd thus drawn together.
1t was a strange and touching spec
tacle: the men and women, the lads
and lassies standing under the trees
down to the very edge Of the discolored
little lake, and the mischievous boys
among the branches-all hushed while
the summer twilight deepened into
dark about then, waiting patiently for
the unseen little bird 10 break forth
like a voice from heaven into rapturous
song. And when al length, after a few
timid notes it poured out its full heart,
heard many low sob mingling with
the strains Of the artless music.