Volume I Part 11 (1/2)
They descended the mountain now with a hasty step, for the day was wearing well on. At the spot where he had stood so long when they went up, Mr. Carleton paused again for a minute. In mountain scenery every hour makes a change. The sun was lower now, the lights and shadows more strongly contrasted, the sky of a yet calmer blue, cool and clear towards the horizon. The scene said still the same that it had said a few hours before, with a touch more of sadness; it seemed to whisper, ”All things have an end ? thy time may not be for ever ? do what thou wouldest do ? 'while ye have light, believe in the light, that ye may be children of the light.' ”
Whether Mr. Carleton read it so or not, he stood for a minute motionless, and went down the mountain looking so grave, that Fleda did not venture to speak to him till they reached the neighbourhood of the spring.
”What are you searching for, Miss Fleda?” said her friend.
She was making a busy quest here and there by the side of the little stream.
”I was looking to see if I could find a mullein leaf,” said Fleda.
”A mullein leaf? what do you want it for?”
”I want it ? to make a drinking-cup of,” said Fleda, her intent bright eyes peering keenly about in every direction.
”A mullein leaf! that is too rough; one of these golden leaves ? what are they? ? will do better, wont it?”
”That is hickory,” said Fleda. ” No; the mullein leaf is the best because it holds the water so nicely. ? Here it is.”
And folding up one of the largest leaves into a most artist- like cup, she presented it to Mr. Carleton.
”For me was all that trouble?” said he. ”I don't deserve it.”
”You wanted something, Sir,” said Fleda. ”The water is very cold and nice.”
He stooped to the bright little stream, and filled his rural goblet several times.
”I never knew what it was to have a fairy for my cup-bearer before,” said he. ”That was better than anything Bordeaux or Xeres ever sent forth.”
He seemed to have swallowed his seriousness, or thrown it away with the mullein leaf. It was quite gone.
”This is the best spring in all grandpa's ground,” said Fleda.
”The water is as good as can be.”
How come you to be such a wood and water spirit? you must live out of doors. Do the trees ever talk to you? I sometimes think they do to me.”
”I don't know ? I think _I_ talk to _them_,” said Fleda.
”It's the same thing,” said her companion, smiling. ”Such beautiful woods!”
”Were you never in the country before in the fall, Sir?”
”Not here ? in my own country often enough; but the woods in England do not put on such a gay face, Miss Fleda, when they are going to be stripped of their summer dress ? they look sober upon it ? the leaves wither and grow brown, and the woods have a dull russet colour. Your trees are true Yankees ?
they 'never say die.' ”
”Why are the Americans more obstinate than the English?” said Fleda.
”It is difficult to compare unknown quant.i.ties,” said Mr.
Carleton laughing, and shaking his head. ”I see you have good ears for the key-note of patriotism.”
Fleda looked a little hard at him, but he did not explain; and indeed they were hurrying along too much for talking; leaping from stone to stone, and running down the smooth orchard slope. When they reached the last fence, but a little way from the house, Fleda made a resolute pause.