He had completely settled his mind as to her appearance and
her voice. She was tall, almost too tall, he was sure of that; and out of
his consciousness there had grown a sweet and vivacious young face that he
knew was hers. Her hair was light-brown with gold lustres (he reveled in
the gold lustres, on the proper theory that when your fancy is painting a
picture you may as well go in for the whole thing and make it sumptuous),
and her eyes were gray. They were very earnest, and yet they sparkled and
laughed to him companionably; and sometimes he had smiled back upon her.
The Undine danced before him through the lonely years, on fair nights in
his walks, and came to sit by his fire on winter evenings when he stared
alone at the embers.
And to-night, here in Plattville, he heard a voice he had waited for long,
one that his fickle memory told him he had never heard before. But,
listening, he knew better--he had heard it long ago, though when and how,
he did not know, as rich and true, and ineffably tender as now. He threw a
sop to his common sense. "Miss Sherwood is a little thing" (the image was
so surely tall) "with a bumpy forehead and spectacles," he said to
himself, "or else a provincial young lady with big eyes to pose at you."
Then he felt the ridiculousness of looking after his common sense on a
moonlight night in June; also, he knew that he lied.
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