The Hope pioneer. [volume] (Hope, N.D.) 1882-1964, 1912-12-12
CHAPTER III.
The Target.


The set at tennis having finished
with victory perching on my banners,
1 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 il"
started on my homeward way.
My route lay again through the min
.ature 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 air was gratefully cool, and
strobe on at a good pace, breathing
deeply and with enjoyment the bosky
odors which greeted me afresh at
every step.
The dead silence which I 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.
I 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 q glimpse
Of Evelyn Grayson during my morn
ing visit to Cragholt. It is true that ]
had gone there with a single purpose
in mind-to convey to Cameron what
I believed to be an important theory
but underlying this, l realized now
was more than a hope, a confidence
even, that I should see Evelyn. l wae
tempted, indeed, to a regret that I had
not waited, visited the kennels, and
accepted Cameron's invitation fo1
luncheon, which would doubtless have
insured me a few words at least with
my Goddess Of Youth.
While on the verge Of this self-re.
pfoach 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 meIely accented
the stiffness, there broke all at once
on the mute calm of the woodland the
silver sweetness Of a girls singing.
Clear and resonant it rang through the
forest aisles; a voice l 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 ap-
proach. It was a French chanson she
was lifting, a lyric of Baudelaire's, Of
which we were both fond. q
Sweet music sweeps me like the sea
Toward my pale star.
air be free.
/ bail afar.
And then she came around the turn.
At first she did not e me, for her
eyes were lifted with her voice, and I
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 q 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
flower-like face looked out through a
frame of I.eghorn 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.
you truant!" I cried. in jocular rep
rimand. Are you always going to run
away when I visit Cragholt?"
She pouted prettily. l detest q WON
an who pouts, ordinarily. There 10
usually such palpable afectation about
1t. But Evelyn's pouting was winsome
al an infants. Besides It was only
momentary. Then her eyes flashed and
her foot was planted very hard. for