The man drew nearer. The picture grew more beautiful as he approached.
He could not see so well as he desired, for the screen was of white
mosquito netting, and it angered him. He cautiously crept closer. The
elevation shut off his view. Then he remembered the large willow tree
shading the well and branching across the window fit the west end of
the cabin. From childhood Elnora had stepped from the sill to a limb and
slid down the slanting trunk of the tree. He reached it and noiselessly
swung himself up. Three steps out on the big limb the man shuddered. He
was within a few feet of the girl.
He could see the throb of her breast under its thin covering and smell
the fragrance of the tossing hair. He could see the narrow bed with its
pieced calico cover, the whitewashed walls with gay lithographs, and
every crevice stuck full of twigs with dangling cocoons. There were pegs
for the few clothes, the old chest, the little table, the two chairs,
the uneven floor covered with rag rugs and braided corn husk. But
nothing was worth a glance except the perfect face and form within reach
by one spring through the rotten mosquito bar. He gripped the limb above
that on which he stood, licked his lips, and breathed through his throat
to be sure he was making no sound. Elnora closed the book and laid it
aside. She picked up a towel, and turning the gathered ends of her hair
rubbed them across it, and dropping the towel on her lap, tossed the
hair again.
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