Their cool, alluring shadows were
like clouds upon an emerald sea. Down near the hedge a whirling
garden spray cast its benevolent waters over the grateful turf, and,
reaching out in playful gusts, blew its mist into the face of the
man outside. Back of the house and farther up the timbered slope
rose a towering windmill and below it the red water tank, partially
screened by the tree-tops. The rhythmic beat of a hydraulic pump
came to the stroller's ears.
Courtney's saunterings had taken him past this charming place
before,--half a dozen times perhaps,--but never had it seemed so
alluring. Outwardly there was no change that he could detect, and
yet there was a subtle difference in its every aspect. The spray,
the shadows, the lazy windmill, the flowers,--he had seen them
all before, just as they were this morning. They had not changed.
But now, by some strange wizardry, the tranquil setting had been
transformed into a vibrant, exquisite fairyland, throbbing with
life, charged with an appeal to every one of the senses. It was as
if some hand had shaken it out of a sound sleep.
But, for that matter, the whole village of Windomville had undergone
a change. It was no longer the dull, sleepy place of yesterday.
Over night it had blossomed. Courtney Thane alone was aware of this
amazing transformation. It was he who felt the thrill that charged
the air, who breathed in the sense-quickening spice, who heard
the pipes of Pan.
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