“Besides, I might never have known what an exquisite thing a spider's web beaded with dew is,” said Emily. “Look at it—swung between those two tall, plumy grasses.”
“Write a poem on it,” jeered Ilse, whose alarm made her fleetingly cross.
“How’s your foot?”
“Oh, it’s all right. But my hair is sopping wet with dew.”
“So is mine. We'll carry our hats for a while and the sun will soon dry us. It’s just as well to get an early start. We can get back to civilisation by the time it’s safe for us to be seen. Only we'll have to breakfast on the crackers in my bag. It won’t do for us to be looking for breakfast, with no rational account to give of where we spent the night. Ilse, swear you’ll never mention this escapade to a living soul. It’s been beautiful—but it will remain beautiful just as long as only we two know of it. Remember the result of your telling about our moonlit bath.”
“People have such beastly minds,” grumbled Ilse, sliding down the stack.
“Oh, look at Indian Head. I could be a sun worshipper this very moment.”
Indian Head was a flaming mount of splendour. The far-off hills turned beautifully purple against the radiant sky. Even the bare, ugly Hardscrabble Road was transfigured and luminous in hazes of silver. The fields and woods were very lovely in the faint pearly lustre.
“The world is always young again for just a few moments at the dawn,” murmured Emily.
Then she pulled her Jimmy-book out of her bag and wrote the sentence down!
They had the usual experiences of canvassers the world over that day. Some people refused to subscribe, ungraciously: some subscribed graciously: some refused to subscribe so pleasantly that they left an agreeable impression: some consented to subscribe so unpleasantly
