But in the picture she is
standing up very straight, leaning against the tree, the books overturned
and forgotten at her feet--drawn into the bigger book--see? It is not
that she has consciously yielded herself. It is not that she is
consciously doing anything. She is listening--oh how she listens and
longs! For what, none of us know--she least of all. Perhaps to the far
off call of life and love speaking through the tender spirit of the
woods. Oh how I love that girl!--and believe in her--and hope for her. In
her eyes are the dreams of centuries. And don't you see that it is the
same idea--the oneness--the openness of nature to the soul open to it?"
"And you are going to make the woods very beautiful?" he asked, after a
little thought. "More than just the beauty of trees and grass and
colour?"
"Yes, the beauty that calls to one.
"Then," he said this a little timidly--"might it not be striking to
have your girl, not really seeing it with the eyes at all? Have her
eyes--closed, perhaps, but she feeling it, knowing it, in the higher
sense really seeing it, just the same?"
She thought about that a minute.
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