"
For most likely, reflected Diane, nibbling intently at the end of her
pen, most likely Palm Beach had never seen a hay-camp and much Mr.
Poynter would care!
CHAPTER XXIV
THE LONELY CAMPER
The west was yellow. High on the mountain where a mad little waterfall
sprayed the bushes of laurel and rhododendron with quicksilver, the
afterglow of the sunset on the tumbling water made a streak of saffron.
The wings of a homing eagle were golden-black against the sky. Over
there above the cornfields to the west there was a cliff and a black
and bushy ravine over which soared a buzzard or two. Presently when
the moon rose its splendid alchemy would turn the black to glowing
silver.
A Kentucky brook chuckled boisterously by the hay-camp, tumbling
headlong over mossy logs and stones and a tangled lacery of drenched
ferns.
Philip laid aside a bow and arrow upon which he had been busily working
since supper and summoned Dick Whittington. Beyond, through oak and
poplar, glowed the camp fire of his lady.
"Likely we'll tramp about a bit, Richard, if you're willing," said he.
"Somehow, we're infernally restless to-night and just why our lady has
seen fit to pile that abominable silver-rod in such a place of honor by
her tent, we can't for the life of us see.
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