Page:Frank Owen - Rare Earth, 1931.djvu/96

 eyes of Hung Long Tom the night presented a far different aspect than it had shown to Scobee. A pale yellow moon hung low in the sky. The stars were as bright as lanterns. The blue sky was as clear as though it were painted there. The air was as fragrant as a sprig of wistaria. Here and there in the distance the fronds of a tree loomed up in black silhouette against the blue gleam of the sky. Hung Long Tom sighed. All this beauty and Scobee not to be able to see it.

Meanwhile Scobee was out in the fields, running as though his very life depended upon it. Hung Long Tom followed leisurely after him. He sensed the tumult that was in the heart of the boy nor did he blame him for running away. He did not believe any harm could befall Scobee in that flat country. There was no traffic along the roads. Those slumbering trails held scant allure for speed-mad motorists, for most of the roads led to solitude, limitless fields of wheat with here and there a bit of a farmhouse hiding as though anxious to get away from the noise and roar of cities.