She put aside her work, the darning of his
stockings, and rambled aimlessly through the woods. She had wandered
she knew not how far, when she was suddenly seized with the same vague
sense of a foreign presence which she had felt before. Could it be
Curson again, with a word of warning? No! she knew it was not he; so
subtle had her sense become that she even fancied that she detected in
the invisible aura projected by the unknown no significance or relation
to herself or Low, and felt no fear. Nevertheless she deemed it wisest
to seek the protection of her sylvan bower, and hurried swiftly
thither.
But not so quickly nor directly that she did not once or twice pause in
her flight to examine the new-comer from behind a friendly trunk. He
was a stranger--a young fellow with a brown mustache, wearing heavy
Mexican spurs in his riding-boots, whose tinkling he apparently did not
care to conceal. He had perceived her, and was evidently pursuing her,
but so awkwardly and timidly that she eluded him with ease. When she
had reached the security of the hollow tree and had pulled the curtain
of bark before the narrow opening, with her eye to the interstices, she
waited his coming.
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