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“
Mr
.
Harney
,
Mr
.
Harney
?
Ain
’
t
Mr
.
Harney
learned
how
to
drive
a
horse
yet
?
”
She
made
no
answer
,
and
he
sat
tilted
back
in
his
chair
,
drumming
on
the
rail
of
the
porch
.
It
was
the
first
time
he
had
ever
spoken
of
the
young
man
in
that
tone
,
and
Charity
felt
a
faint
chill
of
apprehension
.
After
a
moment
he
stood
up
and
walked
away
toward
the
bit
of
ground
behind
the
house
,
where
the
hired
man
was
hoeing
.
The
air
was
cool
and
clear
,
with
the
autumnal
sparkle
that
a
north
wind
brings
to
the
hills
in
early
summer
,
and
the
night
had
been
so
still
that
the
dew
hung
on
everything
,
not
as
a
lingering
moisture
,
but
in
separate
beads
that
glittered
like
diamonds
on
the
ferns
and
grasses
.
It
was
a
long
drive
to
the
foot
of
Porcupine
:
first
across
the
valley
,
with
blue
hills
bounding
the
open
slopes
;
then
down
into
the
beech
-
woods
,
following
the
course
of
the
Creston
,
a
brown
brook
leaping
over
velvet
ledges
;
then
out
again
onto
the
farm
-
lands
about
Creston
Lake
,
and
gradually
up
the
ridges
of
the
Eagle
Range
.
At
last
they
reached
the
yoke
of
the
hills
,
and
before
them
opened
another
valley
,
green
and
wild
,
and
beyond
it
more
blue
heights
eddying
away
to
the
sky
like
the
waves
of
a
receding
tide
.
Harney
tied
the
horse
to
a
tree
-
stump
,
and
they
unpacked
their
basket
under
an
aged
walnut
with
a
riven
trunk
out
of
which
bumblebees
darted
.
The
sun
had
grown
hot
,
and
behind
them
was
the
noonday
murmur
of
the
forest
.
Summer
insects
danced
on
the
air
,
and
a
flock
of
white
butterflies
fanned
the
mobile
tips
of
the
crimson
fireweed
.
In
the
valley
below
not
a
house
was
visible
;
it
seemed
as
if
Charity
Royall
and
young
Harney
were
the
only
living
beings
in
the
great
hollow
of
earth
and
sky
.
Charity
’
s
spirits
flagged
and
disquieting
thoughts
stole
back
on
her
.
Young
Harney
had
grown
silent
,
and
as
he
lay
beside
her
,
his
arms
under
his
head
,
his
eyes
on
the
network
of
leaves
above
him
,
she
wondered
if
he
were
musing
on
what
Mr
.
Royall
had
told
him
,
and
if
it
had
really
debased
her
in
his
thoughts
.
She
wished
he
had
not
asked
her
to
take
him
that
day
to
the
brown
house
;
she
did
not
want
him
to
see
the
people
she
came
from
while
the
story
of
her
birth
was
fresh
in
his
mind
.
More
than
once
she
had
been
on
the
point
of
suggesting
that
they
should
follow
the
ridge
and
drive
straight
to
Hamblin
,
where
there
was
a
little
deserted
house
he
wanted
to
see
;
but
shyness
and
pride
held
her
back
.
“
He
’
d
better
know
what
kind
of
folks
I
belong
to
,
”
she
said
to
herself
,
with
a
somewhat
forced
defiance
;
for
in
reality
it
was
shame
that
kept
her
silent
.
Suddenly
she
lifted
her
hand
and
pointed
to
the
sky
.
“
There
’
s
a
storm
coming
up
.
”
He
followed
her
glance
and
smiled
.
“
Is
it
that
scrap
of
cloud
among
the
pines
that
frightens
you
?
”
“
It
’
s
over
the
Mountain
;
and
a
cloud
over
the
Mountain
always
means
trouble
.
”
“
Oh
,
I
don
’
t
believe
half
the
bad
things
you
all
say
of
the
Mountain
!
But
anyhow
,
we
’
ll
get
down
to
the
brown
house
before
the
rain
comes
.
”
