The Washington times., 1921-02-06
(Conrd from Last Sunday
CHAPTER I. (Continued)

Parnassus, that splendid Saturday
morning. Children are as sensitive
as sea-anemones to currents and
movements of the minds about
them. We had both felt that change
was afoot, and Dinah's remarks
hal only underlined our own con-
victions. First II had been the odd.
uncomradely way in which Luke
had looked at me. Then II had
been the demanding. and the giving
OF his "toga virilis"-a change that
madeshim almost q stranger to me.
Also, and underneath everything.
running through and influencing
everything, had been the thought
Of the mysterious talk Of our elders
round the fire last night.
OF course I had told Luke every
word of Il: I told him everything.
But to my surprise, he had talked
almost like old Ivory or Lorraine.
He had told me that oughtp't to
have listened-which knew as
well as he; only I did not expect
to hear II from him-and that. hav-
ing listened, I must put 1t out OF
my mind at once. That, OF course,
made me think of II twice as much
as before. And I was greatly mis-
taken--knowing him as ! did-it
he was not thinking about 1t, too.
He might be trying not to. Know.
ing Luke's ferocious sense OF
honor, thought that probable
enough. But I did not believe for
a moment that he was succeeding.
b Unspoken, the mystery was with
us both as we climbed and climbed
that morning, bending low, with
down-hung hands, upon the steep
track that wound upward toward
the crest of the hill. There was
a smell of rich unseen flowers some
where or other, and Whit like
damp incense; that was forest
gums-and an odor Of ferny places.
and under all, like deep bass note
underlying a high melody, the
wholesome smell of dirt-clean
dirt, black squelchy dirt that buried
our naked feet; that felt warm and
pleasant, and somehow inexplicably
good.
"Why does one go back to TIE
house?" painted, as we stopped and
flung ourselves on a bit Of clear
grass for rest.
Nobody knows" answered Luke
promptly. taking up my thought.
"I've read lots about that. People
never do want to go back to their
houses, and they love the other
things, and keep escaping to them.
But something always sends them
hack. The books say so. But they
don't say what"
p II shall know when I go to the
world" I exclaimed proudly, Il
shall know everything about every
thing then"
Luke did not answer, but chewed
grass, looking at me. It struck ne
then, for the first time In my life.
that he was very handsome crea-
ture. I did not put 1t in that way;
I only thought to myself that the
light, bright blue of his eyes, and
the width and depth Of the brows
that arched them over, and the
straight lines of his cheeks-so
unlike the apple-shaping Of my
own-were good things to look at,
like the sea and the sunrise sky,
and the rain when it fell in strong.
shining lines upon the shore.
I did not tell my playmate these
things. It may have been because
of that strange new raiment of his,
that seemed to alter him and set
him apart from me; but think on
the whole 1t was because of
nothing more nor less than girlish
modesty. That is a bloom that
springs, sown or unsown, In the
breast. Of every woman-child. /
have never believed those tales of
beautiful shameless maidens
brought up alone on coral shores.
A girls modesty is as much parc
of her as her eyelashes or her hair.
Lorraine had never taught me any
thing save my ordinary schoolroom
lessons; but I knew, as we'll as il
she had lectured me twice daily on
behavior to the opposite sex, that
you did not tell boy he was hand
some-at least, not such a boy as
Luke had suddenly become.
would have told him once-lasJ
year-last night-when? could
not remember. ! only know that
things, somehow, somewhere had
changed and were not as they once
had been. And. though had no
guide but the ancestral memories
that siumber, almost unfeh, il
every breast, I knew, very surely.
that things would never be quite
as they had been again. Oh, yes.
the world was changing, on Hiliwa
Dara!
"Hup!" said Luke suddenly. gain.
ing his feet in single spring and