e
eye of nature and before the presence of nature's innumerable creatures
she stood as innocent as they. She had entered into noisome places, but
so had the marsh-hawk poising grandly on motionless wing there above.
She had scrambled in the mire, and she was ruffled and draggled and
besmirched; so likewise had been the silent flame-bird in the thicket,
but he had washed clean his plumes and was now singing the universal
hymn from the nearest bush-top. The woman drew her lungs full of the
morning. She stretched slowly, lazily, her muscles one by one, and stood
taller and freer for the act. The debauch of the last night, the
debauches of other and worse nights, the acid-like corrosion of that
vulgarity which is more subtle than sin even, all these things faded
into a past that was dead and gone and buried forever. The present alone
was important, and the present brought her, innocent, before an innocent
nature. As she stood there dewy-eyed, wistful, glowing, with loosened
hair, the grasses clinging to her, and the dew, she looked like a
wide-eyed child-angel newly come to earth. To her the morning was great
and broad, like a dream to be dreamed and awakened from, something
unreal and evanescent which would go. Her heart unfolded to its
influence, and she felt within her that tenderness for the beautiful
which is nearest akin to holy tears.

As she stood thus, musing, it seemed natural that a human figure should
enter and become part of the dream. It seemed natural that it should be
a man, and young; that he should be handsome and bold. It seemed natural
that he should rein in his horse at the sight of her. So inevitable was
it all, so much in keeping with the soft sky, the brooding shadow of the
mountain, the squirrel noises, and the day, that she stood there
motionless, making no sign, looking up at him with parted lips, saying
nothing. He was only a fraction, a small fraction, of all the rest. His
fine brown eyes, the curl of his long hair, the bronze of his features
mattered no more to her than the play of the sunlight on Harney.

Then he spurred his horse forward, and something in her seemed to snap.
From the dream-present the woman was thrust roughly back into her past.
The sunlight faded away before her eyes, oozing from the air in drop
after drop of golden splendour, the songs of the birds died, the
murmuring of the brook became an angry brawl that accused the world of
wickedness. The morning fled. From a distance