Each twig had its row of diamonds, and the wet leaves that we
pushed aside spilled gems upon us. The horses set their hoofs
daintily upon fern and moss and lush grass. In the purple distances
deer stood at gaze, the air rang with innumerable bird notes, clear
and sweet, squirrels chattered, bees hummed, and through the
thick leafy roof of the forest the sun showered gold dust. And
Mistress Jocelyn Percy was as merry as the morning. It was now
fourteen days since she and I had first met, and in that time I had
found in her thrice that number of moods. She could be as gay and
sweet as the morning, as dark and vengeful as the storms that came
up of afternoons, pensive as the twilight, stately as the night, - in
her there met a hundred minds. Also she could be childishly frank
- and tell you nothing.
To-day she chose to be gracious. Ten times in an hour Diccon was
off his horse to pluck this or that flower that her white forefinger
pointed out. She wove the blooms into a chaplet, and placed it
upon her head; she filled her lap with trailers of the vine that
swayed against us, and stained her fingers and lips with the berries
Diccon brought her; she laughed at the squirrels, at the scurrying
partridges, at the turkeys that crossed our path, at the fish that
leaped from the brooks, at old Jocomb and his sons who ferried us
across the Chickahominy.
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