This stickle spread, with an oily tremor and white undercurrent
full of air pearls, from a waterfall where the foot of Joan's throne
fretted the stream. Below it the waters slowed and ran smoothly into dark
brown shadows, being here marked by the wrinkled lines of their currents
and splashed with the sky's reflected blue. An ideal spot for a trout it
doubtless was, and the approaching sportsman exercised unusual care in his
approach, crouching along the bank and finally creeping bent double within
casting distance. Then, as he freed his fly, he saw Joan, like a queen of
the pool reigning motionless and silent. She moved and no fish was likely
to rise after within the visual radius of her sudden action. Thereupon the
angler in the man cursed; the artist in him drew a short, sharp breath. He
scrambled to his feet and looked again upon a beautiful picture. The plump,
baby freshness of Joan's face had vanished indeed, and there was that in
the slightly anxious expression and questioning look of her blue eyes that
had told any medical man he stood before a future mother; but, in her
seated position, no tangible suggestion of a hidden life was thrust upon
the spectator's view. He only saw a wondrously pretty woman in a charming
attitude, amid objects which enhanced her beauty by their own. She seemed a
trifle pale for a cottage girl, but her mouth was scarlet and dewy as ripe
wood-strawberries, her eyes were just of that color where the blue sky
above was reflected and changed to a darker shade by the pools of the
brook.
Pages:
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289