what fun she and Cousin Jimmy would have selecting the seeds! She could see in imagination that beautiful flower-bed next summer in the New Moon garden—a glory of crimson and purple and blue and gold.
And what was it the letter said?
“Your verses have the true ring and we shall be glad to see more of your work.”
Oh, bliss—oh, rapture! The world was hers—the Alpine Path was as good as climbed—what signified a few more scrambles to the summit?
Emily could not remain in that dark little room with its oppressive ceiling and unfriendly furniture. Lord Byron’s funereal expression was an insult to her happiness. She threw on her wraps and hurried out to the Land of Uprightness.
As she went through the kitchen, Aunt Ruth, naturally more suspicious than ever, inquired with markedly bland sarcasm,
“Is the house on fire? Or the harbour?”
“Neither. It’s my soul that’s on fire,”’ said Emily with an inscrutable smile. She shut the door behind her and at once forgot Aunt Ruth and every other disagreeable thing and person. How beautiful the world was—how beautiful life was—how wonderful the Land of Uprightness was! The young firs along the narrow path were lightly powdered with snow, as if, thought Emily, a veil of aërial lace had been tricksily flung over austere young Druid priestesses foresworn to all such frivolities of vain adornment. Emily decided she would write that sentence down in her Jimmy-book when she went back. On and on she flitted to the crest of the hill. She felt as if she were flying—her feet couldn’t really be touching the earth. On the hill she paused and stood, a rapt, ecstatic figure with clasped hands and eyes of dream. It was just after sunset. Out, over the ice-bound harbour, great clouds piled themselves up in dazzling, iridescent masses. Beyond were gleaming white hills with early stars over them. Between the dark trunks of the old fir
