Here, for example, was the special
stretch of shore on which Amy Leffingwell had praised his
singing and had hinted her desire to accompany him,--but
never mind that. Farther on was the particular tract where Hortense
Dunton had pottered with her water-colors and had harried
him with the heroines of eighteenth century fiction,--but
never mind that, either. All those things were past, and he was
free. Nobody remained save Carolyn Thorpe, an unaggressive
girl with whom one could really trust oneself and with whom
one could walk, if required, in comfort and content. Cope
threw up his head to the hills and threw out his chest to the
winds, and laid quick hands on a short length of weather-beaten
hemlock plank. "Afraid I'm not holding up my end," he said to
Peter.
At the house again, he found that Carolyn had brought the oil-stove
back into service, and, with Helga, had cast the cloth over
the table and had set some necessary dishes on it. He fetched a
pail or two of water from the pump, and each time placed a fresh
young half-grown sassafras leaf on the surface. "The trade-mark
of our bottling-works," he said facetiously; "to show that our
products are pure.
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