I am nearer than I was yesterday to all humanity, and to----"
Angela's pencil stopped its weaving back and forth across the small white
pages, pausing as if of its own accord. She looked at the last words she
had written and shut the book. Yes, she was near to all humanity; but
nearer than any to _one_ who was all the world to her. Suddenly she felt,
with poignant intensity, the nearness not only of his body to hers, but
the nearness of their souls. Her spirit and his touched in the silence of
the forest. She did not look at him yet, but she knew that he was looking
at her, and that his heart was in the look, calling to hers. And she could
not shut her ears to the call.
So she sat for a long moment, her eyes clinging for safety to the little
volume in her hands. Her fingers pressed it tightly, almost spasmodically,
and upon them she seemed to feel, even to see, Nick Hilliard's hands,
brown and strong. It was only her fancy; but it was not fancy that they
burned to clasp hers. She felt that longing of his, so vital, so
passionate, creating the picture it desired. Always before, when the
thought had flashed into her mind, "He is beginning to love me," she had
thrust it away, shutting her mind against it. But that was before her
spirit was keyed to the high music of river and forest in the Yosemite
Valley.
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