"Grey, Zane - Betty Zane" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grey Zane)

splashing and floundering managed to swim the short distance. Its slender legs
shook as it staggered up the bank. Exhausted or frightened, it shrank close to
its mother. Together they disappeared in the willows which fringed the side of
the hill.

"Was not that little fellow cute? I have had several fawns, but have never had
the heart to keep them," said Betty. Then, as Alfred made no motion to speak,
she continued:

"You do not seem very talkative."

"I have nothing to say. You will think me dull. The fact is when I feel
deepest I am least able to express myself."

"I will read to you." said Betty taking up the book. He lay back against the
grassy bank and gazed dreamily at the many hued trees on the little hillside;
at the bare rugged sides of McColloch's Rock which frowned down upon them. A
silver-breasted eagle sailed slowly round and round in the blue sky, far above
the bluff. Alfred wondered what mysterious power sustained that solitary bird
as he floated high in the air without perceptible movement of his broad wings.
He envied the king of birds his reign over that illimitable space, his
far-reaching vision, and his freedom. Round and round the eagle soared, higher
and higher, with each perfect circle, and at last, for an instant poising as
lightly as if he were about to perch on his lonely crag, he arched his wings
and swooped down through the air with the swiftness of a falling arrow.

Betty's low voice, the water rushing so musically over the falls, the great
yellow leaves falling into the pool, the gentle breeze stirring the clusters
of goldenrod--all came softly to Alfred as he lay there with half closed eyes.

The time slipped swiftly by as only such time can.

"I fear the melancholy spirit of the day has prevailed upon you," said Betty,
half wistfully. "You did not know I had stopped reading, and I do not believe
you heard my favorite poem. I have tried to give you a pleasant afternoon and
have failed."

"No, no," said Alfred, looking at her with a blue flame in his eyes. "The
afternoon has been perfect. I have forgotten my role, and have allowed you to
see my real self, something I have tried to hide from all."

"And are you always sad when you are sincere?"

"Not always. But I am often sad. Is it any wonder? Is not all nature sad?
Listen! There is the song of the oriole. Breaking in on the stillness it is
mournful. The breeze is sad, the brook is sad, this dying Indian summer day is
sad. Life itself is sad."

"Oh, no. Life is beautiful."