THE next few weeks for Esther were transitions between content and longing. The trees of the woodland, that had been her playfellow, now had a rival. Of Glenn Andrews she had made a hero, a king. She regarded him as a being to inspire wonder and mystery. His simplest word or gesture spoke directly to the heart. They took sweet wood rambles together. He had already begun to realize that all solitary pleasures were selfish. He rather looked forward to their meetings, although he did not let her think they meant much to him. “When do you want to see me again?” was usually his parting question. If she said “to-morrow,” he could not come until the next day, or later. To her it seemed that he took a pride in finding out when she most wanted to see him--only to stay away at that particular time. He held himself aloof--gave her room to expand. Hers was a nature artistic to a painful degree--a nature nobly expansive. But within the limit of the country, amid entirely commonplace people, her power of artistic perception had been of little value--rather a burden than a delight. One day, after she had urged Glenn Andrews to go with her to where they would have a pretty view of a mountain waterfall, he had refused, and she had gone alone. It was a long stroll, but she was thirsting to see it. She resented his refusal, and so had gone alone. Glenn watched her out of sight, then went back to his writing. He was doing some of his strongest and most vigorous work. Esther reached the mountain side, and stood a little way back to keep the spray from wetting her dress. The breath of it was refreshing. She took a pride in the mighty roar of the falls. Its voice sounded so strong, so real. Its commanding majesty held her. She repeated a name, its echo was drowned. Flowers, ferns, great rocks, everything in its track was treated to the same reckless inconsideration. Only the mist rose higher and higher as though it would regain the height it lost when the waters made the mighty leap, and dashed its very heart to pieces on the stones below. How she gloried in the daring of the mist. It was so light, and thin, and quiet, but in its very silence there seemed to be strength. It was gaining slowly, but she cheered it as she saw it ascending, her eyes gleaming with excitement as she watched it. “I know you’d like to slide down the falls.” A hand was laid upon her shoulder. “I’d rather go up with the mist,” she answered Glenn Andrews, as though she was neither surprised nor pleased by his sudden arrival. “I got through my work earlier than I expected,” he began. “When they told me how far it was, I thought it would be too late for you to come home alone.” If he expected her to thank him for the consideration, he was disappointed. The wind that the falls generated had blown some of the waves of her hair across her face. She carelessly brushed it back with her hands. A strand of rebellious hair, that seemed unmanageable, she pulled out and threw away.