He was in fact simply waiting
for an opportunity which he was convinced must occur before long, of
keeping a certain promise made to a friend of his on a night of early
summer in the Indian Plains.
It was a wild day of drifting squalls and transient gleams of
sunshine. He grimaced to himself as he sauntered forth after luncheon
to view the damage that had been wrought upon his property. The ground
he trod was sodden with long rain, and the cedars beyond the lawn
plunged heavily to and fro in melancholy unrest, flinging great drops
upon him as he passed. The force of the gale was terrific, and he had
to bend himself nearly double to meet it.
With difficulty he forced his way to the little summer-house that
overlooked the shore. He marvelled somewhat to find it still standing,
but it was sturdily built and would probably endure as long as the
ground beneath it remained unshaken.
But beyond it a great gap yawned. The daisy-covered space on which
they had sat that afternoon, now many weeks ago, had disappeared.
Nothing of it remained but a crumbling desolation to which the daisies
still clung here and there.
Nick stood in such shelter as the summer-house afforded, and looked
forth upon the heaving waste of waters. The tide was rising. He
could see the great waves swirling white around the rocks.
Pages:
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318