Darrell arrived at the hotel at a late hour for dinner; the dining-room
was therefore nearly deserted when he took his place at the table.
Dinner over, he went out for a stroll, and, glad to be alone with his
thoughts, walked up and down the entire length of the little town. His
mind was constantly on Kate. Again and again he seemed to see her, as he
loved best to recall her, standing on the summit of the "Divide," her
wind-tossed hair blown about her brow, her eyes shining, as she
predicted their reunion and perfect love. Over and over he seemed to
hear her words, and his heart burned with desire for their fulfilment.
He had waited patiently, he had shown what he could achieve, how he
could win, but all achievements, all victories, were worthless without
her love and presence.
The moon was just rising as he returned to the hotel, but it was still
early. His decision was taken; he would go to Ophir by the morning
train, learn Kate's whereabouts from his father, and go to meet her and
accompany her home. He had chosen a path leading through a secluded
portion of the grounds, and as he approached the hotel his attention was
arrested by some one singing. Glancing in the direction whence the song
came, he saw one of the private parlors brightly lighted, the long, low
window open upon the veranda. Something in the song held him entranced,
spell-bound. The voice was incomparably rich, possessing wonderful range
and power of expression, but this alone was not what especially appealed
to him. Through all and underlying all was a quality so strangely,
sweetly familiar, which thrilled his soul to its very depths, whether
with joy or pain he could not have told; it seemed akin to both.
Still held as by a spell, he drew nearer the window, until he heard the
closing words of the refrain,--words which had been ringing with strange
persistency in his mind for the last two or three hours,-"Some time, some time, and that will be
God's own good time for you and me."
His heart leaped wildly. With a bound, swift and noiseless, he was on
the veranda, just as the singer, with tender, lingering emphasis,
repeated the words so low as to be barely audible to Darrell standing
before the open window. But even while he listened he gazed in
astonishment at the singer; could that magnificent woman be his
girl-love? She was superbly formed, splendidly proportioned; the rich,
warm blood glowed in her cheeks, and her hair gleamed in the light like
spun gold. He stood motionless; he would not retreat, he dared not
advance.
As the last words of the song died away, a slight sound caused the
singer to turn, facing him, and their eyes met. That was enough; in that
one glance the memory of his love returned to him like an overwhelming
flood. She was no longer his Dream-Love, but a splendid, living reality,
only more beautiful than his dreams or his imagination had portrayed
her.