which lay shining, new-fallen, within a few hundred feet of the valley. The current of air carried down by the stream was inexpressibly pure and vital. The whole scene—the dark fir-woods, the bright green meadows, the great desert of rock above—had a wildness, a formless majesty, a primitive freshness, that soothed and quieted her mood. The rush of the water half-hypnotised her. Her thoughts became blurred. Her face, coloured by the keen air, was dreamy, and once her delicate expressive lips parted in a smile.
She was conscious that she smiled, though she hardly knew why. It was perhaps a mere sensation of physical well-being, for long strange to her. Already, after a week of mountain air, the weight of her winter's illness was lifted. She looked even vigorous, and there was still about her the suggestion of softness and luxuriance due to her recent maternity, unhappy as that had been.
She sighed, got up, looked vaguely about her, and walked, on along the water-side to find Ronald. A shout announced that he had seen her, and he came scrambling up from a cove—a small, sturdy figure, straight as a dart, with a mass of bronze-coloured hair and vivid, intelligent eyes. He was a beautiful child, and Teresa's heart swelled with pride in him. She sailed his boat for him till lunch-time, the stolid Swiss nurse sitting on the bank like a meditative cow.
