It is quite characteristic, too,
of the type of womanhood which Augusta
represents (and with which this broad continent
of ours abounds), that, with her habitual disregard
of appearances, she would have scorned
the notion that their intercourse had any ultimate
end beyond that of mutual pleasure and instruction.
It was early in the morning in the third week
of Strand's stay at the Parsonage. A heavy
dew had fallen during the night, and each tiny
grass-blade glistened in the sun, bending under
the weight of its liquid diamond. The birds
were improvising a miniature symphony in the
birches at the end of the garden; the song-
thrush warbled with a sweet melancholy his
long-drawn contralto notes; the lark, like a
prima donna, hovering conspicuously in mid
air, poured forth her joyous soprano solo; and
the robin, quite unmindful of the tempo, filled
out the pauses with his thoughtless staccato
chirp. Augusta, who was herself the early bird
of the pastor's family, had paid a visit to the
little bath-house down at the brook, and was
now hurrying homeward, her heavy black hair
confined in a delicate muslin hood, and her lithe
form hastily wrapped in a loose morning gown.
She had paused for a moment under the birches
to listen to the song of the lark, when suddenly
a low, half articulate sound, very unlike the
voice of a bird, arrested her attention; she
raised her eyes, and saw Strand sitting in the
top of a tree, apparently conversing with himself,
or with some tiny thing which he held in
his hands.
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