XV
This is a breathlessly hot day in early June, and I am all alone in the deep fir forest, the others having gone “to town” for supplies,—even Mary, who likes to take an occasional peep over the rim of this big green bowl in which we dwell, to see the people outside, note the style of their hats and gowns, watch the “cars come in,” hear the engines whistle, and all that sort of thing. She begged me to go, but I, thinking of the long dusty road, especially that portion of it winding above those dizzy and dangerous canyons, felt that I would rather stay in my little old box-house under the cool shadows of the pointed firs. Once in a while I enjoy being quite alone for a whole day. It must be the hermit-strain in my blood, inherited from dead-and-gone ancestors, who probably ate roots and herbs, dressed in skins, and lived in caves.
The travellers set out for the giddy world just at sunrise, and as I stood at the gate to see them off, Mary looked at me quite sorrowfully, and Tom said, “You have a long day before you, Katharine; what will you do when we are gone?”
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