"And, oh, by the powers, if I haven't got her nightgown in this
dressing-bag!"
Naturally the manager was not deeply interested in Mrs. May's nightgown.
As for Mrs. May herself, she was not yet conscious of the loss of it. She
was thinking, at first, about the pictures which she had not seen in the
_Illustrated London News_, and the girl's exclamation: "I hope they won't
be killed!" Then, later, of the valley through whose door she had just
entered with Nick Hilliard, the hidden valley which Indians knew and loved
long before a few cattle-seeking American soldiers ferreted out the
secret.
The voice of the Merced drowned the dull voice of the past which had
suddenly called to her. It was a gay laughing voice that sang among the
tumbled rocks sent down to the river for playthings, by her tall brothers
the mountains; and the voices of pines and cedars answered, all singing
the same high song in the same language--the language of Nature. Only,
they sang in different tones and different keys--soprano and contralto,
tenor and bass. The song was so sweet that no one could think of anything
else, unless it might be of love; for the song told of love, because
nature is love.
As the sun rose higher and warmed the air, the valley was like a great box
full of spices, such as the three Wise Men of the East carried for an
offering when they followed their Star; a secret, golden box was the
valley, high-sided, with a lid of turquoise and sapphire, which was the
sky itself.
Pages:
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331