And yet not
that, quite. The colors are more like jewels. The morning's opals; the
noon's pearls; the evening wears rubies in her hair. There's a sort of
beauty that makes one ache. It seems to me sometimes as if I couldn't stand
it--just the way the Grand Canyon got hold of me. Doesn't it affect you
that way--you who have so much poetry in you?"
"Indeed it does, Lucia. I've often watched that sky until I've forgotten
all about my cattle--both of them!" He laughed, and reached for the twine.
He was always turning their serious moments into a jest. As long as she had
been here with her husband, he kept at a distance.
Lucia saw his hand go out. "The string?" she said. "I'll get it." She left
the door, and handed him the twine which he had put on the table.
"Thank you," said Gilbert. "Do you mind putting your finger--there? Never
mind. I think I can do it, after all."
"Oh, do let me help you," she said. "I'd like to." And she leaned down,
knelt beside him, and held her white forefinger on the cord.
How it happened, neither of them ever knew. But a sudden electric thrill
ran through their veins. Something hammered in their brains. For a brief
instant, their hearts beat as though the whole world must hear.
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