It streamed into the world below the treetops, and lay
warm upon the dead leaves and the green moss and the fragile wild
flowers. There was a noise of birds, and a fox barked. All was
lightness, gayety, and warmth; the sap was running, the heyday of
the spring at hand. Ah! to be riding with her, to be going home
through the fairy forest, the sunshine, and the singing! . . . The
happy miles to Weyanoke, the smell of the sassafras in its woods,
the house all lit and trimmed. The fire kindled, the wine upon the
table . . . Diccon's welcoming face, and his hand upon Black
Lamoral's bridle; the minister, too, maybe, with his great heart and
his kindly eyes; her hand in mine, her head upon my breast -
The vision faded. Never, never, never for me a home-coming such
as that, so deep, so dear, so sweet. The men who were my friends,
the woman whom I loved, had gone into a far country. This world
was not their home. They had crossed the threshold while I lagged
behind. The door was shut, and without were the night and I.
With the fading of the vision came a sudden consciousness of a
presence in the forest other than my own. I turned sharply, and saw
an Indian walking with me, step for step, but with a space between
us of earth and brown tree trunks and drooping branches. For a
moment I thought that he was a shadow, not substance; then I
stood still, waiting for him to speak or to draw nearer.
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