The Lucky Piece: A Tale of the North Woods. Paine Albert Bigelow
yellow, while the top is purple-red. The stem is yellow, too. Now, watch!"
She broke the top of the Boletus in two parts – the audience pressing closer to see. The flesh within was lemon color, but almost instantly, with exposure to the air, began to change, and was presently a dark blue. Murmurs of wonder ran through the group. They had not seen this marvel before.
"Bravo!" murmured Frank. "You are beginning to score."
"Many of the Boleti do that," Constance resumed. "Some of them are very bad tasting, even when harmless. Some are poisonous. One of them, the Satanus, is regarded as deadly. I don't think this is one of them, but I shall not insist on Miss Carroway and the rest of you eating it."
Miss Carroway sent a startled glance at the lecturer and sweepingly included the assembled group.
"Eat it!" she exclaimed. "Eat that? Well, I sh'd think not! I wouldn't eat that, ner let any o' my folks eat it, fer no money!"
There was mirth among the audience. A young mountain climber in a moment of recklessness avowed his faith by declaring that upon Miss Deane's recommendation he would eat the whole assortment for two dollars.
"You'd better make it enough for funeral expenses," commented Miss Carroway; whereupon the discussion became general and hilarious, and the extempore lecture ceased.
"You see," Constance said to Frank, "I cannot claim serious attention, even upon so vital a subject as the food supply."
"But you certainly entertained them, and I, for one, have a growing respect for your knowledge." Then, rising, he added, "Speaking of food reminds me that you probably have some sort of midday refreshment here, and that I would better arrange for accommodations and make myself presentable. By the way, Constance," lowering his voice, "I saw a striking-looking girl on the veranda as we were approaching the house a while ago. I don't think you noticed her, but she had black eyes and a face like an Indian princess. She came out for a moment again, while you were talking. I thought she rather looked as if she belonged here, but she couldn't have been a servant."
They had taken a little turn down the long veranda, and Constance waited until they were well out of earshot before she said:
"You are perfectly right – she could not. She is the daughter of Mr. Morrison, who owns the Lodge – Edith Morrison – her father's housekeeper. I shall present you at the first opportunity so that you may lose no time falling in love with her. It will do you no good, though, for she is going to marry Robin Farnham. The wedding will not take place, of course, until Robin is making his way, but it is all settled, and they are both very happy."
"And quite properly," commented Frank with enthusiasm. "I heard something about it coming over. Mr. Meelie told me. He said they were a handsome pair. I fully agree with him." The young man smiled down at his companion and added: "Do you know, Conny, if that young man Farnham were unencumbered, I might expect you to do some falling in love, yourself."
The girl laughed, rather more than seemed necessary, Frank thought, and an added touch of color came into her cheeks.
"I did that years ago," she owned. "I think as much of Robin already as I ever could." Then, less lightly, "Besides, I should not like to be a rival of Edith Morrison's. She is a mountain girl, with rather primitive ideas. I do not mean that she is in any sense a savage or even uncultured. Far from it. Her father is a well-read man for his opportunities. They have a good many books here, and Edith has learned the most of them by heart. Last winter she taught school. But she has the mountains in her blood, and in that black hair and those eyes of hers. Only, of course, you do not quite know what that means. The mountains are fierce, untamed, elemental – like the sea. Such things get into one's blood and never entirely go away. Of course, you don't quite understand."
Regarding her curiously, Frank said:
"I remember your own hunger for the mountains, even in March. One might almost think you native to them, yourself."
"My love for them makes me understand," she said, after a pause; then in lighter tone added, "and I should not wish to get in Edith Morrison's way, especially where it related to Robin Farnham."
"By which same token I shall avoid getting in Robin Farnham's way," Frank said, as they entered the Lodge hall – a wide room, which in some measure carried out the Anglo-Saxon feudal idea. The floor was strewn with skins, the dark walls of unfinished wood were hung with antlers and other trophies of the chase. At the farther end was a deep stone fireplace, and above it the mounted head of a wild boar.
"You see," murmured Constance, "being brought up among these things and in the life that goes with them, one is apt to imbibe a good deal of nature and a number of elementary ideas, in spite of books."
A door by the wide fireplace opened just then, and a girl with jetty hair and glowing black eyes – slender and straight as a young birch – came toward them with step as lithe and as light as an Indian's. There was something of the type, too, in her features. Perhaps in a former generation a strain of the native American blood had mingled and blended with the fairer flow of the new possessors. Constance Deane went forward to meet her.
"Miss Morrison," she said cordially, "this is Mr. Weatherby, of New York – a friend of ours."
The girl took Frank's extended hand heartily. Indeed, it seemed to the young man that there was rather more warmth in her welcome than the occasion warranted. Her face, too, conveyed a certain gratification in his arrival – almost as if here were an expected friend. He could not help wondering if this was her usual manner of greeting – perhaps due to the primitive life she had led – the untrammeled freedom of the hills. But Constance, when she had passed them, said:
"I think you are marked for especial favor. Perhaps, after all, Robin is to have a rival."
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