"Ah, Floy," she cried one afternoon, as she lay with her face turned up to the great green boughs that seemed pencilled against the azure sky, "if one could paint what one feels! Look at these silent, living trees that stand in all their grandeur under some mighty spell; see how the wonderful heaven steals through the leaves and throws its blue softness upon the twilight gloom; here at our feet nestle the soft, green ferns, and over all is the indescribable fragrance of the redwoods. Turn there, to your right, little artist, high up on that mountain; can you see through the shimmering haze a great team moving as if through the air? It is like the vision of the Bethshemites in Dore's mystic work, when in the valley they lifted up their eyes and beheld the ark returning. Oh, Floy, it is not Nature; it is God.
And who can paint God?"
"No one. If one could paint Him, He would no longer be great," answered the girl, resting her sober eyes upon Ruth's enraptured countenance.
One afternoon Ruth took a book and Ethel over the tramway to this fairy spot. It was very warm and still. Mrs. Levice had swung herself to sleep in the hammock, and Mr. Levice was dozing and talking in snatches to the Tyrrells, who were likewise resting on the Levices' veranda. All Nature was drowsy, as Ruth wandered off with the little one, who chattered on as was her wont.
"Me and you's yunnin' away," she chatted; "we's goin' to a fowest, and by and by two 'ittle birdies will cover us up wid leaves. My! Won't my mamma be sorry? No darlin' 'ittle Ethel to pank and tiss no more. Poor Mamma!"
"Does Ethel think Mamma likes to spank her?"
"Yes; Mamma does des what she likes."
"But it is only when Ethel is naughty that Mamma spanks her. Here, sweetheart, let me tie your sunbonnet tighter. Now Ruth is going to lie here and read, and you can play hide-and-seek all about these trees."
"Can I go wound and sit on dat log by a bwook?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I's afwaid. I's dweffully afwaid."
"Why, you can turn round and talk to me all the time."
"But nobody'll be sitting by me at all."
"I am here just where you can see me; besides, God will be right next to you."
"Will He? Ven all yight."
Ruth took off her hat and prepared to enjoy herself. As her head touched the green earth, she saw the little maiden seat herself on the log, and turning her face sideways, say in her pleasant, piping voice,-- "How-de-do, Dod?" And having made her acknowledgments, all her fears vanished.
Ruth laughed softly to herself, and straightway began to read. The afternoon burned itself away. Ethel played and sang and danced about her, quite oblivious of the heat, till, tired out, she threw herself into Ruth's arms.
"Sing by-low now," she demanded sleepily; "pay it's night, and you and me's in a yockin'-chair goin' to by-low land."
Ruth realized that the child was weary, and drawing her little head to her bosom, threw off the huge sunbonnet and ruffled up the damp, golden locks.
"What shall I sing, darling?" she mused: she was unused to singing babies to sleep. Suddenly a little kindergarten melody she had heard came to her, and she sang softly in her rich, tender contralto the swinging cradle-song:
--
"In a cradle, on the treetop, Sleeps a tiny bird;
Sweeter sound than mother's chirping Never yet was heard.
See, the green leaves spread like curtains Round the tiny bed, While the mother's wings, outstretching, Shield--the--tiny--head?"
As her voice died slowly into silence, she found Ethel looking over her shoulder and nodding her head.
"No; I won't tell," she said loudly.
"Tell what?" asked Ruth, amused.
"Hush! He put his finger on his mouf -- sh!"
"Who?" asked Ruth, turning her head hurriedly. Not being able to see through the tree, she started to her feet, still holding the child.
Between two trees stood the stalwart figure of Dr. Kemp, --Dr. Kemp in loose, light gray tweeds and white flannel shirt; on the back of his head was a small, soft felt hat, which he lifted as she turned, --a wave of color springing to his cheek with the action. As for Ruth, --a woman's face dare not speak sometimes.
"Did I startle you?" he asked, coming slowly forward, hat in hand, the golden shafts of the sun falling upon his head and figure.
"Yes," she answered, trying to speak calmly, and failing, dropped into silence.
She made no movement toward him, but let the child glide softly down till she stood at her side.
"I interrupted you," he continued; "will you shake hands with me, nevertheless?"
She put her hand in his proffered one, which lingered in the touch; and then, without looking at her, he stooped and spoke to the child. In that moment she had time to compose herself.
"Do you often come up this way?" she questioned.
He turned from the child, straightened himself, and leaning one arm against the tree, answered,-- "Once or twice every summer I run away from humanity for a few days, and generally find myself in this part of the country. This is one of my select spots. I knew you would ferret it out."
"It is very lovely here. But we are going home now; the afternoon is growing old. Come, Ethel."
A shadow fell upon his dark eyes as she spoke, scarcely looking at him.
Why should she hurry off at his coming?
"I am sorry my presence disturbs you," he said quietly; "But I can easily go away again."
"Was I so rude?" she asked, looking up with a sudden smile. "I did not mean it so; but Ethel's mother will want her now."
"Ethel wants to be carried," begged the child.
"All right; Ruth will carry you," and she stooped to raise her; but as she did so, Kemp's strong hand was laid upon her arm and held her back.
"Ethel will ride home on my shoulder," he said in the gay, winning voice he knew how so well to use with children. The baby's blue eyes smiled in response to his as he swing her lightly to his broad shoulder. There is nothing prettier to a woman than to see the confidence that a little child reposes in a strong man.
So through the mellow, golden sunlight they strolled slowly homeward.
