The Curtain Rises [antikvár]

The hills were silent, enfolding the road ahead of her, as she climbed upwards through the evening light. Spring was in the air, with its moist fragrance of growth ; the sky was emptily expectant, waiting until the night should fill it with stars, as serene water seems always to be waiting for something to reflect. When she raised her head, the expression of her young face was grave and attentive. Dusk gave to her features pallor and mystery, and to her eyes the black depth of a well. The track was rough, and she stumbled. Lowering her glance, she went resolutely forward. A little sigh of wind, the forlorn bleating of a lamb far away, and the persistent march of her feet, were heard in the solitude. A whitewashed farmhouse and buildings presently threw up a ghostly radiance from the sheltered hollow in which they stood. Approaching them, she paused with her hand upon the gate that guarded the fold. She raised the latch, let it drop, lifted it again, and, thrawing back her shoulders, entered with a swift, decisive movement. The click of the gate had set two dogs barking within the bam. "Dio," she called in a caressing voice, "good dog, Dio! Don't you know me, bach ? Prince and Dio ! What's on you, boys?" The dogs ceased to bark and hurl themselves against the barn door. They began to whine and scratch. "No, no," she murmured to them through a chink. "Better not. If I was to feel you nuzzling up against me, I mightn't have the heart to go." Wiping her shoes on the sack beside the doorstep, she entered the house. The kitchen was warmed and lit by a glowing fire • the single window was closed ; geraniums grew in pots II