SON OF THE WIND
starved for things wonderful, the thrill given to the nerves by the sight of unwonted beauty or strength—all the quicker to be credulous because of that. Had she seen a plow pony by moonlight? He smiled to think of her as she would be with her bright intensity leading him to the place where she had seen her vision, some place of water, no doubt, where the creature, whatever it was, came to drink, where sooner or later—perhaps to-morrow, perhaps the day after—he would see it.
The nearness of discovery made him restless. It would be hard to close his eyes before they had held that revelation. His sleep that night was thin, a veil across his consciousness. It dissolved with dawn, and he wondered whether they might not make an earlier start than half-past eight.
Getting away for a morning's ride seemed a simple business. As far as himself was concerned, the preliminaries were something to eat and saddling. But, for the girl, it appeared they were far more complicated, involving a multitude of employments and errands around and in and out of the house. As early as half-past six, when he first got up, looking through his curtain he saw her in the pale ruddy light, already intent with haste, a long lock of hair falling across her cheek, laying out mattresses and pillows to air on the ground.
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