She blued—and almost starched and ironed him—with her cobalt eyes.
“It must be so nice,” she said in little, tremulous gasps, “to be a hermit, and have ladies climb mountains to talk to you.”
The hermit folded his arms and leaned against a tree. Beatrix, with a sigh, settled down upon the mat of pine-needles like a bluebird upon her nest. The hermit followed suit; drawing his feet rather awkwardly under his gunny-sacking.
“It must be nice to be a mountain,” said he, with ponderous lightness, “and have angels in blue climb up you instead of flying over you.”
“Mamma had neuralgia,” said Beatrix, “and went to bed, or I couldn’t have come. It’s dreadfully hot at that horrid old inn. But we hadn’t the money to go anywhere else this summer.”
“Last night,” said the hermit, “I climbed to the top of that big rock above us. I could see the lights of the inn and hear a strain or two of the music when the wind was right. I imagined you moving gracefully in the arms of others to the dreamy music of the waltz amid the fragrance of flowers. Think how lonely I must have been!”
