“It’s all too lovely,” exclaimed Medora Phillips. “And what is quite as good,” she was able to declare, “the house itself is all right.” Winter had not weakened its roof nor wrenched away its storm-windows; no irresponsible wayfarer had used it for a lodging, nor had any casual marauder entered to despoil. Medora directed the disposition of the hamper of food with a relieved air and sent Cope down with Peter for an armful or two of driftwood from the assertive shore.
“And you, Carolyn,” she said, “see if the oil-stove will really go.”
Down on the beach itself, where the past winter’s waste was still profusely spread, Cope rose to the greening hills, to the fresh sweep of the wind, and to the sun-shot green and purple streakings over the water. The wind, in particular, took its own way: dry light sand, blown from higher shelvings, striped the dark wet edges of the shore; and every bending blade of sandgrass drew a circle about itself with its own revolving tip.
Cope let the robust and willing Peter pick up most of the firewood and himself luxuriated in the spacious world round about him. Yes, a winter had flown—or, at any rate, had passed—and here he was again. There had been annoyances, but now he felt a wide and liberal relief. Here, for example, was the special stretch of shore on which Amy Leffingwell had praised his singing and had hinted her desire to accompany him—but never mind that. Farther on was the particular tract where Hortense Dunton had pottered with her watercolors and had harried him with the heroines of eighteenth century fiction—but never mind that, either. All those things were past, and he was free. Nobody remained save Carolyn Thorpe, an unaggressive girl with whom one could really trust oneself and with whom one could walk, if required, in comfort and content. Cope threw up his head to the hills and threw out his chest to the winds, and laid quick hands on a short length of weather-beaten hemlock plank. “Afraid I’m not holding up my end,” he said to Peter.
At the house again, he found that Carolyn had brought the oil-stove back into service, and, with Helga, had cast the cloth over the table and had set some necessary dishes on it. He fetched a pail or two of water from the pump, and each time placed a fresh young half-grown sassafras leaf on the surface. “The trademark of our bottling-works,” he said facetiously; “to show that our products are pure.” And Carolyn, despite his facetiousness, felt more than ever that he might easily become a poet. Medora viewed the floating leaves with indulgent appreciation. “But don’t let’s cumber ourselves with many cares,” she suggested; “we are here to make the best of the afternoon. Let’s out and away—the sooner the better.”
The three soon set forth for a stroll through spring’s reviving domain. Cope walked between Medora and Carolyn, or ahead of them, impartially sweeping away twigs and flowering branches from before their faces. The young junipers were putting forth tender new tips; the bright leaves of the sassafras shone forth against the pines. Above the newly-rounded tops of the oaks and maples in the valley below them the Three Witches rose gauntly; and off on their far hill the two companion pines—(how had he named them? Romeo and Juliet? Pelleas and Melisande?)—still lay their dark heads together in mysterious confidences under the heightening glow of the late afternoon sun. Carolyn looked from them back to Cope and gave him a shy smile.
He did not quite smile back. Carolyn was well enough, however. She was suitably dressed for a walk. Her shoes were sensible, and so was her hair. Amy had run to fluffiness. Hortense had often favored heavy waves and emphatic bandeaux. But Carolyn’s hair was drawn back plainly from her forehead, and was gathered in a small, low-set knot. “Still, it’s no concern of mine,” he reminded himself, and walked on ahead.
Carolyn’s sensible shoes brought her back, with the others, at twilight. The three took up rather ornamentally (with aid from Peter and Helga) the lighter details of housekeeping. Toward the end of the stroll, Cope and Carolyn—perhaps upon the mere unconscious basis of youth—had rather fallen in together, and Medora Phillips, once or twice, had had to safeguard for herself her face and eyesight from the young trees that bordered their path. But that evening, as they sat on a settle before the driftwood fire, Medora took pains to place herself in the middle. Carolyn was a sweet young flower, doubtless—humbler, possibly, than Amy or Hortense; yet she too perhaps must be extirpated, gently but firmly, from the garden of desire.
“You look better already,” Medora said to Cope. “You’ll go back tomorrow a new man.”
Her elbow was on the back of the settle and close to his shoulder. His face caught the glow from the fire.
“Oh, I’m all right, I assure you,” he said.
“You do look better,” observed Carolyn on her own account. “This air is everything. Only a few hours of it—”
“Another bit of wood on the fire, if you please, Carolyn,” said her patroness.
“Let me do it,” said Cope. He rose quickly and laid on a stick or two. He remained standing on the edge of the glow. He hoped nobody would say again that he was looking rather thin and pale.
“And what is Mr. Lemoyne doing this evening?” presently asked Mrs. Phillips in a dreamy undertone. Her manner was casual and negligent; her voice was low and leisurely. She seemed to place Lemoyne at a distance of many, many leagues. “Rehearsing, I suppose?”
“Yes,” replied Cope. “This new play has absorbed him completely.”
“He will do well?”
“He always does. He always has.”
“Men in girls’ parts are so amusing,” said Carolyn. “Their walk is so heavy and clumsy, even
