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There
had
never
been
such
a
June
in
Eagle
County
.
Usually
it
was
a
month
of
moods
,
with
abrupt
alternations
of
belated
frost
and
mid
-
summer
heat
;
this
year
,
day
followed
day
in
a
sequence
of
temperate
beauty
.
Every
morning
a
breeze
blew
steadily
from
the
hills
.
Toward
noon
it
built
up
great
canopies
of
white
cloud
that
threw
a
cool
shadow
over
fields
and
woods
;
then
before
sunset
the
clouds
dissolved
again
,
and
the
western
light
rained
its
unobstructed
brightness
on
the
valley
.
On
such
an
afternoon
Charity
Royall
lay
on
a
ridge
above
a
sunlit
hollow
,
her
face
pressed
to
the
earth
and
the
warm
currents
of
the
grass
running
through
her
.
Directly
in
her
line
of
vision
a
blackberry
branch
laid
its
frail
white
flowers
and
blue
-
green
leaves
against
the
sky
.
Just
beyond
,
a
tuft
of
sweet
-
fern
uncurled
between
the
beaded
shoots
of
the
grass
,
and
a
small
yellow
butterfly
vibrated
over
them
like
a
fleck
of
sunshine
.
This
was
all
she
saw
;
but
she
felt
,
above
her
and
about
her
,
the
strong
growth
of
the
beeches
clothing
the
ridge
,
the
rounding
of
pale
green
cones
on
countless
spruce
-
branches
,
the
push
of
myriads
of
sweet
-
fern
fronds
in
the
cracks
of
the
stony
slope
below
the
wood
,
and
the
crowding
shoots
of
meadowsweet
and
yellow
flags
in
the
pasture
beyond
.
All
this
bubbling
of
sap
and
slipping
of
sheaths
and
bursting
of
calyxes
was
carried
to
her
on
mingled
currents
of
fragrance
.
Every
leaf
and
bud
and
blade
seemed
to
contribute
its
exhalation
to
the
pervading
sweetness
in
which
the
pungency
of
pine
-
sap
prevailed
over
the
spice
of
thyme
and
the
subtle
perfume
of
fern
,
and
all
were
merged
in
a
moist
earth
-
smell
that
was
like
the
breath
of
some
huge
sun
-
warmed
animal
.
Charity
had
lain
there
a
long
time
,
passive
and
sun
-
warmed
as
the
slope
on
which
she
lay
,
when
there
came
between
her
eyes
and
the
dancing
butterfly
the
sight
of
a
man
’
s
foot
in
a
large
worn
boot
covered
with
red
mud
.
“
Oh
,
don
’
t
!
”
she
exclaimed
,
raising
herself
on
her
elbow
and
stretching
out
a
warning
hand
.
“
Don
’
t
what
?
”
a
hoarse
voice
asked
above
her
head
.
“
Don
’
t
stamp
on
those
bramble
flowers
,
you
dolt
!
”
she
retorted
,
springing
to
her
knees
.
The
foot
paused
and
then
descended
clumsily
on
the
frail
branch
,
and
raising
her
eyes
she
saw
above
her
the
bewildered
face
of
a
slouching
man
with
a
thin
sunburnt
beard
,
and
white
arms
showing
through
his
ragged
shirt
.
“
Don
’
t
you
ever
SEE
anything
,
Liff
Hyatt
?
”
she
assailed
him
,
as
he
stood
before
her
with
the
look
of
a
man
who
has
stirred
up
a
wasp
’
s
nest
.
He
grinned
.
“
I
seen
you
!
That
’
s
what
I
come
down
for
.
”
“
Down
from
where
?
”
she
questioned
,
stooping
to
gather
up
the
petals
his
foot
had
scattered
.
