That very afternoon he set to work. Only one thing hindered him
upon beginning, though it in no wise checked his delight, and
that in the multiplicity of tasks planned to make a paradise out
of the valley he could not choose the one with which to begin. He
had to grow into the habit of passing from one dreamy pleasure to
another, like a bee going from flower to flower in the valley,
and he found this wandering habit likely to extend to his labors.
Nevertheless, he made a start.
At the outset he discovered Bess to be both a considerable help
in some ways and a very great hindrance in others. Her excitement
and joy were spurs, inspirations; but she was utterly
impracticable in her ideas, and she flitted from one plan to
another with bewildering vacillation. Moreover, he fancied that
she grew more eager, youthful, and sweet; and he marked that it
was far easier to watch her and listen to her than it was to
work. Therefore he gave her tasks that necessitated her going
often to the cave where he had stored his packs.
Upon the last of these trips, when he was some distance down the
terrace and out of sight of camp, he heard a scream, and then the
sharp barking of the dogs.
For an instant he straightened up, amazed. Danger for her had
been absolutely out of his mind. She had seen a rattlesnake--or a
wildcat. Still she would not have been likely to scream at sight
of either; and the barking of the dogs was ominous.
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