A
strong, mature odor, mixed alike of leaves and flowers, and very
different from the faint, elusive sweetness of spring, filled the
air. The creek, with a few faded leaves dropped upon its bosom,
and films of gossamer streaming from its bushy fringe, gurgled over
the pebbles in its bed. Here and there, on its banks, shone the
deep yellow stars of the flower they sought.
Richard Hilton walked as in a dream, mechanically plucking a stem
of rudbeckia, only to toss it, presently, into the water.
"Why, Richard! what's thee doing?" cried Asenath; "thee has thrown
away the very best specimen."
"Let it go," he answered, sadly. "I am afraid everything else is
thrown away."
"What does thee mean?" she asked, with a look of surprised and
anxious inquiry.
"Don't ask me, Asenath. Or--yes, I WILL tell you. I must say
it to you now, or never afterwards. Do you know what a happy life
I've been leading since I came here?--that I've learned what life
is, as if I'd never known it before? I want to live, Asenath,--and
do you know why?"
"I hope thee will live, Richard," she said, gently and tenderly,
her deep-blue eyes dim with the mist of unshed tears.
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