"Let us not judge, even now," said Alva, quietly; "let us try to hope in some way. After all, what little things they were in life—so little, and probably beset beyond their strength. And such great things are pressing on me to-day. What do they matter? God forgive me for saying it."
Lassie was silenced.
When the Eastern mail train arrived about noon, belated as usual, their packing was quite finished. Mary Cody brought up the letters. Alva took hers into her room and a minute later she came to the door.
"Lassie," she said, "there is something here that I must attend to at once. Go down and have dinner, and I'll come a little late."
So Lassie went down to dine alone, and found Ingram waiting for her. She told him that Alva would come in a little.
"Has she had bad news?" he asked, startled by a presentiment of immediate sorrow.
"No, I think not," Lassie said; "she didn't speak so."
But Ingram stayed, distressed. "She has had bad news," he said; "poor girl—her tragedy is closing in fast. I can feel its end, myself."
His eyes went to the window. "Couldn't you go out with me for just an hour after dinner?" he asked wistfully. Then he smiled a little. "We can talk about the dam," he said—"or help hunt the Lathbuns."
She looked at him and they both knew that she would go. It was a very simple, almost childish, romance, theirs—but its lack of stress made it all the more alluring to two who were living under the wings of so much tragedy.