A WIND FLOWER
not a woman, but an incarnate art, a miracle of changing line and curve, a ceaseless inspiration.
Suddenly he heard the pound and boom of the surf. In an ecstasy of impatience she hurried back, seized his hand, and fairly dragged him on. The crash of the waves and the wind together took from him all power of connected thought. He clung to her hand like a child, and when she threw herself down on her face to breathe, he grasped her dress and panted in her ear: "We—can't—get—much—farther—unless—you—can—walk—the—Atlantic!" She smiled happily back at him, and the thickness of her hair, blown by the wind from the ocean about his face, brought him a strange, unspeakable content.
"Shall we ever go back?" he whispered, half to himself. "Or will you float down the cliff and wake me by your going?"
Her wide, dark eyes answered him silently. "It is like a dream, though," her high, sweet voice added. And then he realised that she had hardly spoken since they left the house. The house? As
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