As dusk fell over lake and mountain, Donald returned from Wainwright’s cabin. Andy glanced up expectantly as his friend appeared, but quickly averted his face as he saw the look of settled melancholy shrouding Donald’s features. Donald sank disconsolately to a seat outside the kitchen door. He had found Wainwright alone and wondered if Connie had purposely absented herself. Her treatment of him since her return puzzled him sorely and had filled him with a great despondency. As he rose and walked toward his cabin, Andy gazed after the retreating figure, eyes filled with compassion, then turned to speak to one of his helpers in such an irritable tone that the flunkey’s mouth opened in astonishment.
For three evenings it was the same. Donald failed to find Connie at home; nor did she come to the mill. He regretfully decided that it was no coincidence, but that she was deliberately avoiding him.
On a Sunday afternoon Andy saw Donald gaze yearningly toward the bluff, then turn up the trail leading to the dam.
At Donald’s request Gillis had diverted logging operations to circle the little oasis in the heavy timber, so that Connie’s sylvan glade still held its primeval charm and beauty.
Donald stood for a moment gazing reflectively into the white foam at the foot of the tiny cataract, then threw himself on the soft bed of moss and closed his eyes. But this time the fairy spot did not bring the usual delicious languor to his harassed spirit. Birds sang as sweetly; flowers filled the air with the same odour; the wind sighed as softly through the tree-tops, and the small brook still sang its rippling song. The rapid tattoo of a woodpecker’s bill on a hollow tree jarred his nerves and he tossed restlessly.
A cedar tip floated through the air. Blown by the wind, it fluttered in circles, then landed gently on the hands lying on his chest. His eyes opened, then, with trembling limbs he came to his feet.
Connie, clad in faded overalls and cotton shirt, stood on the edge of the “nest.” Her breast was heaving, her loosened golden hair flying in the wind. The softness in her blue eyes made Donald gasp, and his heart thumped as though it were in his throat.
“Connie!” he cried huskily, “I love you, dear! Don’t you care for me even a little?”
She sprang lightly to the ground and came toward him, her arms outstretched. Tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. “Oh, Donald, Donald, you big stupid!” she sobbed, “I have been waiting here for you every day. I—I have loved you always.”
With a shock of incredible rapture Donald gathered her in his strong arms, where she cuddled like a weeping child. He kissed her red lips, her eyes, hair and throbbing throat. “My little Connie,” he said, in a voice vibrant with feeling, “do you really love me?” He pressed his cheek to hers and felt the flutter of her long lashes as she pressed the softness of her own closer. The quick, exquisite indrawing of her sobbing breath were lovely answering things, and he thrilled to hear her whisper: “Yes, Donald! Yes, Donald!”