had felt about hills. Sheilah would have sung, 'I will throw down my body onto the hills from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the sod,' which after all was the Lord or, anyhow, a part of Him. How good it was to feel the Lord physically beneath one!
'I'd love to write a psalm!' she suddenly exclaimed out loud.
She was not alone this afternoon. A man in greenish-brown tweeds, the color of the tufted grass, sat against one of the pines.
'What sort of a psalm would you write?'
'Terribly pagan, I'm afraid,' sighed Sheilah, and she patted the rough, curly grass beside her.
The man observed her with an amused smile.
'Nice old dog, isn't he?'
'Lovely old dog!' Sheilah agreed, and turning, burying her nose in the thick grass, drew in a deep breath.
'Smell good after his bath?' laughed the man. It had rained the night before.
'Perfectly delicious,' Sheilah laughed back, and turning her face to the sky again she closed her eyes, and the bit of conversation as light and trivial as the bit of feathered milkweed seed that floated at that moment up over the top of the hill and disappeared into space, so likewise drifted unpursued into silence.
