Wint looked at her, and his heart was pounding softly. “You said there were some who would watch me—lovingly,” he reminded her.
For a minute she did not speak; then she nodded her head slowly; and she said: “Yes.” Her eyes met his honestly.
Wint had been very sure, before he asked her, that she had written the letter; he had meant to remind her of this word, and if she confessed it, to go on. But now that he had come thus far, he found that he could go no farther. It was not that she forbade him; not that there was any prohibition in her eyes. It was something within himself that restrained him. Something that held his tongue, bade him not risk his fortune—lest, perchance, he lose it.
Any one but a blind man would have seen there was no danger of his losing it; but Wint, in this matter, was blind—for the immemorial reason. So all the courage that had brought him thus far deserted him, and he only said:
“Oh!”
That did not seem to Joan to call for any answer, so she said nothing; and after a moment Wint got hurriedly to his feet and exclaimed:
“Well, I’m getting hungry. Better be getting back, hadn’t we?”
Joan looked, perhaps, a little disappointed. But she said she guessed so; and they made their way down to join the others.
After every one had eaten till there was no more eat in them, there was a general tendency to take things easy. The dishes had to be washed in the brook; and the girls undertook to do that. Dick Hoover found some horseshoes, and started a game of quoits. Wint would have taken a hand; but Jack Routt drew him aside and said:
“I’d like a little talk with you, Wint. Mind?”