Bennington's conscience-stricken memory stirred. It did not seem so
ridiculous, under the direct charm of the fresh young voice that came
down through the summer air from above, like a dove's note from a
treetop, to apologize to Lawton's girl. The incongruity now was in
forcing into this Arcadian incident anything savouring of
conventionality at all. It had been so idyllic, this talk of the sun
fairy and the cloud; so like a passage from an old book of legends,
this dainty episode in the great, strong, Western breezes, under the
great, strong, Western sky. Everything should be perfect, not to be
blamed.
"Do sun fairies accept apologies?" he asked presently, in a subdued
voice.
"They might."
"This particular sun fairy is offered one by a man who is sorry."
"Is it a good big one?"
"Indeed, yes."
The head appeared over the edge of the rock, inspected him gravely for
a moment, and was withdrawn.
"Then it is accepted," said the voice.
"Thank you!" he replied sincerely. "And now are you going to let down
your rope ladder, or whatever it is? I really want to talk to you."
"You are so persistent!" cried the petulant voice, "and so foolish! It
is like a man to spoil things by questionings!"
He suddenly felt the truth of this.
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