Boy looked about the room in search of Gloss. He did not see her and rightly divined that she was grieving, in some hidden place, over the death of her old friend.
He arose and passed unnoticed from the room. The sky was dark with storm-clouds and the snow was falling. He took the path toward the grove and as he passed the leach no dog lifted his head and watched him. He entered the bush, but no dog followed him. That part lay behind. In the old playhouse, cold and dreary and dark, Boy found the girl.
“Gloss,” he said, and she answered without lifting her head.
“I couldn’t help it, Boy; I had to come. I know I did wrong, and after what happened last night I know I should be careful. But, oh, Boy, I can’t bear to think of it all. It’s terrible!”
Boy went over and sat on a corner of the stump table. He did not attempt to pacify her. He did not know how. He felt his impotency, and it made him miserable.
“Nobody will know, can know, how good Noah has been to me,” sobbed Gloss. “Oh, Boy, I don’t know how I’ll get along without him. I shut my eyes and I can see him there, and then I see him on that burnin’ boat, and I see the fire all about him, reachin’ its red fingers for him. Oh,” she gasped, “I can’t bear it, Boy; I can’t, I can’t!”
He lifted her up and bore her out to the snow-carpeted open. She had not mentioned Simpson’s name. He was thankful for that. She clung to him, her warm breath biting his cheek and her hot tears eating his soul. And so he half carried, half led her back to the house.
“Go in and lie down,” he said gently.
She loosened her arms slowly, looking into his eyes, and when she had gone he leaned weakly against the wall.
The guests had finished dinner and Mrs. Declute was blocking the space between the table and the fireplace with her matronly figure and discoursing on the probabilities of a hard, long winter.