Most of its tender young foliage had shriveled and died, but on
branches near its upturned roots a few leaves were bright and green,
still drawing life from the ruined trunk. Dale stood by the fallen
tree, looking out across the glade. It was all silent and beautiful,
with that curious effect of increasing light which made the distances
clearer every moment, gave more color to the earth and a more tender
glow to the sky.
Then he saw her, a long way off, coming from the direction of the ride
through the trees; and he felt the pressure of blood pumping into his
head, the weight on his lungs, the laboring pain of his heart, that a
man might feel just before he sinks to the ground in an apoplectic
fit.
She was all alone, sauntering toward him with her hands full of
flowers. She had no hat, and she was wearing the same loose frock that
she wore last night.
With the gesture that had become habitual to him, Dale put his hands
in his pockets--those wicked hands that no prison could much longer
hold, that would defy control, that seemed now to be stretched forth
across all the intervening space to touch the face and limbs they
hungered for. He moved away from the shadow by the fallen tree,
stepped out into the open, went slowly to meet her, and his longing
was intolerably acute.
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