"Ride down the valley!" she cried. "That's right. He's coming up, and
he'll meet you on the way. He'll be glad--to see you!"
She saw the rider swing sharply about, and the clatter of the
galloping hoofs died out up the valley; then she closed the door,
dropped the latch, and, running to the middle of the room, threw up
her arms and cried out, a wild, shrill yell of triumph like the call
of the old Indian brave when he rises with the scalp of his murdered
enemy dripping in his hand.
The extended arms she caught back to her breast, and stood there with
head tilted back, crushing her delight closer to her heart.
And she whispered: "Pierre! Mine, mine! Pierre!"
Next she went to the steel mirror on the wall and looked long at the
flushed, triumphant image. At length she started, like one awakening
from a happy dream, and hurriedly coiled the thick, soft tresses about
her head. Never before had she lingered so over a toilet, patting each
lock into place, twisting her head from side to side like a peacock
admiring its image.
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