The pioneer express., 1912-11-29
CHAPTER III.
The TARGET,

The set at tennis having finished
with victory perching on my banners,
l made excuse to put off the inspection
of the collie puppies until another
time, resumed my walking boots and,
with a parting If futile admonition to
Cameron to think no more about it, !"
started on my homeward way.
My route lay again through the min
iature forest, for the day had waxed
uncomfortably warm with the ap.
proach of noon, and there was scant
shade on the high-road between our
two houses. In the wood, however,
the lair was gratefully cool, and I
strobe on at good pace, breathing
deeply and with enjoyment the bosky
odors which greeted me afresh at
every step.
The dead silence which l had re-
marked earlier was broken now by the
hoarse footing Of a steamboat whistle,
somewhere of shore, and by the shrill
voices Of birds, apparently in resent
full protest at this raucous invasion of
their sylvan quiet.
had succeeded in putting aside, for
the moment at least, all thought of
Cameron, his anonymous letters, and
his mutilated portrait, and was dwell
ling on my disappointment at not hav-
ing caught even so much as a glimpse
Of Evelyn Grayson during my morn
ing visit to Cragholt. 1t is true that
had gone there with single purpose
in mind-to convey to Cameron what
believed to be an important theory
but underlying this, realized now,
was more than hope, confidence
even, that should see Evelyn. was
tempted, indeed, to regret that I had
not waited, visited the kennels. and
accepted Cameron's invitation for
luncheon, which would doubtless have
insured me few words at least with
my Goddess of Youth.
While on the verge Of this self.re.
proach my spirits suddenly lifted, for
the steam whistle having died away
in the distance and the feathered
choristers having relapsed into a
pleased chirp that merely accented
the stiffness, there broke all at once
on the mute calm of the woodland the
silver sweetness of girls singing.
Clear and resonant it rang through the
forest aisles; a voice I knew beyond
mistaking. Evelyn Grayson was com.
ing towards me over the scented turf.
Still hidden by a bend in the path. the
melody alone measured for me her an.
proach. It was a French chanson she
was lifting, a lyric of Baudelaire's. of
which we were both fond. =
Sweet music sweeps me like the sea
Toward my pale star.
Whether the clouds be there or all the
air be free.
And then she came around the turn.
At first she did not see me, for her
eyes were lifted with her voice. and
had time to mark the fascinating
grace Of her long, free stride, before
she became conscious Of my presence
and checked and shortened it. She
wore a frock of white serge, the
skirts edge at her ankles, revealing
dainty, snowy buckskin ties and Just a
peep Of white silk hose. And her
hower-like face looked out through a
frame Sof Leghorn straw and pink
roses, tied snugly beneath her softly
rounded chin with the filmiest Of long.
floating white wells. You can imagine
the picture she made. there in, this
green glade. with her big blue eyes
alight with glad surprise. and the
warm, blood suddenly risen IN her
cheeks. 81
Il. You truant!" cried. in jocular rep
rimand. Are you always going to run
away whom I visit Cragholt?' r.
! She pouted prettily.I 4 .detest wom-
IN who pQuts. i. ordinarily. There 10
usually such palpahle anectation about
It. But Evelyn's pouting waswinsome
an an infant's. Besides It was only
uuaa efi5 :.