.

On such an afternoon Charity Royall lay on a ridge above a sunlit
hollow, her face pressed to the earth and the warm currents of the grass
running through her. Directly in her line of vision a blackberry branch
laid its frail white flowers and blue-green leaves against the sky. Just
beyond, a tuft of sweet-fern uncurled between the beaded shoots of the
grass, and a small yellow butterfly vibrated over them like a fleck of
sunshine. This was all she saw; but she felt, above her and about her,
the strong growth of the beeches clothing the ridge, the rounding of
pale green cones on countless spruce-branches, the push of myriads of
sweet-fern fronds in the cracks of the stony slope below the wood,
and the crowding shoots of meadowsweet and yellow flags in the pasture
beyond. All this bubbling of sap and slipping of sheaths and bursting of
calyxes was carried to her on mingled currents of fragrance. Every leaf
and bud and blade seemed to contribute its exhalation to the pervading
sweetness in which the pungency of pine-sap prevailed over the spice
of thyme and the subtle perfume of fern, and all were merged in a moist
earth-smell that was like the breath of some huge sun-warmed animal.

Charity had lain there a long time, passive and sun-warmed as the slope
on which she lay, when there came between her eyes and the dancing
butterfly the sight of a man's foot in a large worn boot covered with
red mud.

"Oh, don't!" she exclaimed, raising herself on her elbow and stretching
out a warning hand.

"Don't what?" a hoarse voice asked above her head.

"Don't stamp on those bramble flowers, you dolt!" she retorted,
springing to her knees. The foot paused and then descended clumsily on
the frail branch, and raising her eyes she saw above her the bewildered
face of a slouching man with a thin sunburnt beard, and white arms
showing through his ragged shirt.

"Don't you ever SEE anything, Liff Hyatt?" she assailed him, as he stood
before her with the look of a man who has stirred up a wasp's nest.

He grinned. "I seen you! That's what I come down for."

"Down from where?" she questioned, stooping to gather up the petals his
foot had scattered.

He jerked his thumb toward the heights. "Been cutting down trees for Dan
Targatt."

Charity sank back on her heels and looked at him musingly. She was
not in the least afraid of poor Liff Hyatt, though he "came from the
Mountain," and some of the girls ran when they saw him. Among t