SHE felt free to go now.She walked toward the place where she had left the eggs.It was on the side of the rock overlooking the creek.As she knelt to remove the leaves, she heard from far below a man's voice singing.She leaned forward and glanced down at the creek.In a moment appeared a young man with a fishing rod and a bag slung over his shoulder.His gray and white striped flannel trousers were rolled to his knees.His fair skin and the fair hair waving about his forehead were exposed by the flapping-brimmed straw hat set upon the back of his head.His voice, a strong and manly tenor, was sending up those steeps a song she had never heard before--a song in Italian.She had not seen what he looked like when she remembered herself and hastily fell back from view.She dropped to the grass and crawled out toward the ledge.When she showed her face it so happened that he was looking straight at her.
"Hello!" he shouted."That you, Nell?"
Susan drew back, her blood in a tumult.From below, after a brief silence, came a burst of laughter.
She waited a long time, then through a shield of bunches of grass looked again.The young man was gone.She wished that he had resumed his song, for she thought she had never heard one so beautiful.Because she did not feel safe in descending until he was well out of the way, and because she was so comfortable lying there in the afternoon sunshine watching the birds and listening to them, she continued on there, glancing now and then at where the creek entered and where it left her range of vision, to make sure that no one else should come and catch her.
Suddenly sounded a voice from somewhere behind her:
"Hey, Nell! I'm coming!"
She sprang to her feet, faced about; and Crusoe was not more agitated when he saw the print of the naked foot on his island's strand.The straw hat with the flapping brim was just lifting above the edge of the rock at the opposite side, where the path was.She could not escape; the shelf offered no hiding place.
Now the young man was stepping to the level, panting loudly.
"Gee, what a climb for a hot day!" he cried."Where are you?"With that he was looking at Susan, less than twenty yards away and drawn up defiantly.He stared, took off his hat.He had close-cropped wavy hair and eyes as gray as Susan's own, but it was a blue-gray instead of violet.His skin was fair, too, and his expression intelligent and sympathetic.In spite of his hat, and his blue cotton shirt, and trousers rolled high on bare sunburned legs, there was nothing of the yokel about him.
"I beg your pardon," he exclaimed half humorously."I thought it was my cousin Nell.""No," said Susan, disarmed by his courtesy and by the frank engaging manner of it.
"I didn't mean to intrude." He showed white teeth in a broad smile."I see from your face that this is your private domain.""Oh, no--not at all," stammered Susan.
"Yes, I insist," replied he."Will you let me stay and rest a minute? I ran round the rock and climbed pretty fast.""Yes--do," said Susan.
The young man sat on the grass near where he had appeared, and crossed his long legs.The girl, much embarrassed, looked uneasily about."Perhaps you'd sit, too?" suggested he, after eyeing her in a friendly way that could not cause offense and somehow did not cause any great uneasiness.
Susan hesitated, went to the shadow of a little tree not far from him.He was fanning his flushed face with his hat.The collar of his shirt was open; below, where the tan ended abruptly, his skin was beautifully white.Now that she had been discovered, it was as well to be pleasant, she reasoned."It's a fine day," she observed with a grown-up gravity that much amused him.
"Not for fishing," said he."I caught nothing.You are a stranger in these parts?"Susan colored and a look of terror flitted into her eyes."Yes,"she admitted."I'm--I'm passing through."
The young man had all he could do to conceal his amusement.
Susan flushed deeply again, not because she saw his expression, for she was not looking at him, but because her remark seemed to her absurd and likely to rouse suspicion.
"I suppose you came up here to see the view," said the man.He glanced round."It _is_ pretty good.You're not visiting down Brooksburg way, by any chance?""No," replied Susan, rather composedly and determined to change the subject."What was that song I heard you singing?""Oh--you heard, did you?" laughed he."It's the Duke's song from `Rigoletto.'""That's an opera, isn't it--like `Trovatore'?""Yes--an Italian opera.Same author."
"It's a beautiful song." It was evident that she longed to ask him to sing it.She felt at ease with him; he was so unaffected and simple, was one of those people who seem to be at home wherever they are.
"Do you sing?" he inquired.
"Not really," replied she.
"Neither do I.So if you'll sing to me, I'll sing to you."Susan looked round in alarm."Oh, dear, no--please don't," she cried.
"Why not?" he asked curiously."There isn't a soul about.""I know--but--really, you mustn't."
"Very well," said he, seeing that her nervousness was not at all from being asked to sing.They sat quietly, she gazing off at the horizon, he fanning himself and studying her lovely young face.He was somewhere in the neighborhood of twenty-five and a close observer would have suspected him of an unusual amount of experience, even for a good-looking, expansive youth of that age.
He broke the long silence."I'm a newspaper man from Cincinnati.
I'm on the _Commercial_ there.My name's Roderick Spenser.My father's Clayton Spenser, down at Brooksburg"--he pointed to the southeast--"beyond that hill there, on the river.I'm here on my vacation." And he halted, looking at her expectantly.
