Page:To-morrow Morning (1927).pdf/260

 squirrels in the trees tossed and twirled the cones in their little hands, and rippled and quivered their tails; she heard the cry under the waterfall and through the sound of the pines. But when she was alone the woods were silent with a silence that threatened.

"All I ask from life is a book and a brook and a pine tree," she had said once to Ralph Levinson in his mother's box at the opera. And now she had all three. But the ground under the pine needles turned hard so quickly. She twisted around, trying to get comfortable, propping herself against a scratchy tree trunk; she lit a cigarette and began to read Christina Rossetti. Beautiful thoughts would be good for the baby.

Good heavens! This was awful! And yet this was the same place where she and Joe had been so blissful last Sunday, when the ground had felt like a feather bed. They had laughed and been silly all the shining day, in a warm intimacy.

She heard a crackling behind her. Tramps? Silent now, except for the waterfall, smooth as glass, then plunging. Ferns quivered in the spray. She would look at falling water and quivering dripping fern, and think about her baby.