He looked in
tranquil comfort, now down into the little valley, and now across it into
the wood beyond, where the sun was approaching the treetops. He had come
to the hill with the mere instinct of the old hunter seeking to be
completely out of doors, but he had brought work with him and was
engaged, when not looking thoughtfully far away, in finishing a huge bow,
the spring of which he occasionally tested. Every motion showed the
retained possession of tremendous strength as well as the knowledge of
its use to most advantage. A very hale old man was Ab, the great hunter
and head of the people of the Fire Valley.
A few yards away from Ab, leaning against the trunk of a beech, stood
Lightfoot, her quick glance roving from place to place and as keen,
seemingly, as ever. These two were still most content when together, and
it was well for each that they had in the same degree withstood what the
years bring. The woman had, perhaps, changed less than the man. Her hair
was still dark and her step had not grown heavy. She had changed in face
and expression rather than in form. There had grown in her eyes and about
her mouth the indefinable lines and tokens, pathetic and sweet, of care,
of sorrow, of suffering and of quiet gladness, in short, of motherhood.
As twilight came on the woods rang with the shouts and laughter of a
party of young men who were coming home from some forest trip.
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