f liking the rough foreman even if he was a new kind of human
animal from anything in Peter's experience.

And so was Beth. A new kind of animal--something between a harrier and a
skylark, but wholesome and human too, a denim dryad, the spirit of
health, joy and beauty, a creature good to look at, in spite of her envy
of the fashionable Miss Peggy McGuire with her modish hats, cerise veils
and ear puffs, her red roadsters and her beaux. Poverty sat well upon
Beth and the frank blue eyes and resolute chin gave notice that whatever
was to happen to her future she was honorable and unafraid.

But if there was something very winning about her, there was something
pathetic too. Her beauty was so unconscious of her ridiculous clothing,
and yet Peter had come to think of it as a part of her, wondering indeed
what she would look like in feminine apparel, in which he could not
imagine her, for the other girls of Black Rock had not so far blessed
his vision. Aunt Tillie Bergen had told him, over his late breakfast, of
the difficulties that she and Beth had had to keep their little place
going and how Beth, after being laid off for the summer at the factory,
had insisted upon working in the Gaskill's vineyard to help out with the
household. There ought to be something for Beth Cameron, better than
this--something less difficult--more ennobling.

Thinking of these things Peter made his way back to the cabin. Nothing
of a disturbing nature had happened around Black Rock House, except the
arrival of the remainder of McGuire's unwelcome house party, which had
taken to wandering aimlessly through the woods, much to the disgust of
Jesse Brown, who, lost in the choice between "dudes" and desperadoes,
had given up any attempt to follow Peter's careful injunctions in regard
to McGuire. It was still early and the supper hour was seven, so Peter
unpacked his small trunk which had arrived in his absence and then,
carefully shutting door and windows, sat at the piano and played quietly
at first, a "Reverie" of Tschaikowsky, a "Berceuse" of Cesar Cui, the
"Valse Triste" of Jean Sibelius and then forgetting himself--launched
forth into Chopin's C Minor Etude. His fingers were stiff for lack of
practice and the piano was far from perfect, but in twenty minutes he
had forgotten the present, lost in memories. He had played this for
Anastasie Galitzin. He saw the glint of the shaded piano lamp upon her
golden head, recalled her favorite perfume....