And here upon the top of the bank Conniston again drew in his
reins with a jerk, again surprised at what he saw before him.
Here was a long, wide bench of land which had been carefully leveled.
Through the middle of it ran the creek. Feeding the waterfall was a
dam, its banks steep, its floor, seen through the clear water, white
sand. And it was more than a dam; it was a tiny mountain lake. A
drifting armada of spotlessly white ducks turned their round, yellow
eyes upon the trespasser. Over yonder a wide flight of stone steps
led to the water's edge. And the flat table-land, bordered with a
dense wall of pines and firs, was a great lawn, brilliantly green,
thick strewn with roses and geraniums and a riot of bright-hued
flowers Conniston did not know.
He turned his eyes to the house itself. It was a great, two-storied,
wide-verandaed building, with spacious doors, deep-curtained windows,
a tower rising above the red tiles of the roof at each corner,
everywhere the gleam of white columns. Each tower had its balconies,
and each balcony was guessed more than seen through the green and red
and white of clambering roses.
Midway between the broad front steps and the edge of the little toy
lake was a summer-house grown over with vines, its broad doorway
opening toward Conniston. And sitting within its shade, a book in her
lap, her gray eyes raised gravely to meet his, was the girl he had
seen on the Overland Limited.
Pages:
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71