He sat down for a while, listening absently to this
continuous, soothing murmur, perhaps thinking of the roar of the great
city he had left. He was quite content to be alone; he did not even want
Maurice Mangan to be discoursing to him--in those seasons of calm in
which questions, long unanswered, perhaps never to be answered, will
arise.
Then he rose and went on again, for, from the high-road along which he
had driven, he had caught a glimpse of a wilder part of the glen, where
the river seemed to come tumbling down a rocky chasm, with some huge
boulders in mid-channel; and even now he could hear the distant, muffled
roar of the waters. But all of a sudden he stopped. Away along there,
and keeping guard (like a stork, as Miss Georgie Lestrange had
suggested) above the pool that lay on this side of the double waterfall,
was a young lady, her back turned towards him. So far as he could make
out, she wasn't doing anything; a long fishing-rod, with the butt on the
ground, she held idly in her right hand; while with her left hand she
occasionally shaded her face across towards the west--probably, as he
imagined, she was waiting for some of those smooth-sailing clouds to
come and obscure the too-fierce light of the sun.
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