The two are idling in a grassy nook on the slope of one of Vermont's green hills, sheltered by a clump of spruce from observation and the slanting rays of the sun.
There is an infinite calm in the late spring air, and the golden afternoon drifts by on lazy pinions. Away in the west, across the vale, the main spur of the Green Mountain range awaits the last pencilings of the low-descending sun. Southward Wild River sings its way through buttercup and daisy flecked meadows; to the north the smoke from the chimneys of Raymond blurs the lines of as fair a landscape as earth can boast.
Derrick Ames pulls his hat over his eyes, stretches himself on the greensward and gazes long and lovingly at his companion. The fair face, browned by many rambles among the hills; the rippling hair, tumbled in confusion about mischievous and laughter-laden brown eyes; the rounded arms; the slim, girlish figure, about which even the coarse dress donned for mountain climbing falls in graceful lines; the dainty feet and the perfectly turned ankles, make a picture for an artist.
She picked up the book which lies open upon the grass and glances over its pages, dreamily.
The sun goes down in a golden haze, and still the lovers tarry in their sylvan trysting-place.
"It is getting late and damp; we had better be moving," he says, finally.
They arise and take their way across the pasture, their arms clasped about each other's waist. Derrick is talking in low, earnest tones, with an infrequent interruption by his companion.
"It's no use," he exclaims, impatiently, in reply to a protest on her part. "Twice I have spoken to your father, with the same result. I have been refused and insulted. He is selfish, overbearing—"
She places one hand upon his lips. "But will you not make a third trial—for my sake," she pleads.
"For your sake I would do anything," he answers, pressing the soft hand to his lips. "There is no time like the present. Will you wait for me here?" She nods. "Where will I find your father?"
