He
watched her as he could when she was not looking at him. A loosened
strand of her hair lay among the lupine roots, one of her hands rested,
brown and upcurled, on a tiny weed its weight had broken. She turned
her head with a nestling movement, drew a deep, soft breath and her
eyelids drooped.
"David," she said in a drowsy voice, "I'm going to sleep. Wake me at
supper time."
He became rigidly quiet. When she had sunk deep into sleep, only her
breast moving with the ebb and flow of her quiet breath, he crept
nearer and drew a blanket over her, careful not to touch her. He
looked at the unconscious face for a moment, then softly dropped the
blanket and stole back to his place ready to turn at the first foot
fall and lift a silencing hand.
It was one of the beautiful moments that had come to him in his wooing.
He sat in still reverie, feeling the dear responsibilities of his
ownership. That she might sleep, sweet and soft, he would work as no
man ever worked before. To guard, to comfort, to protect her--that
would be his life. He turned and looked at her, his sensitive face
softening like a woman's watching the sleep of her child.
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