"From the look of the sky, I am almost sure that we shall have a blow before the rain," Winthrop responded; "in the face of such a probability, I couldn't allow you to start across the barrens alone—it's absurd to suppose I should."
Margaret stood hesitating. "You want me to give it up—postpone it. But I cannot get rid of the idea that something has happened—I have had no letter for so long; even if Lanse had not cared to write himself, one of the men, Elliot or Dodd, would have done so, it seems to me, under any ordinary circumstances."
"Lanse probably keeps them too busy."
"They always have their evenings."
But Winthrop showed scanty interest in the evenings of Elliot and Dodd. "For myself, I can't pretend to be anxious," he said—"I mean about Lanse; I am only anxious about you."
"But if I don't go now, I can't go until to-morrow noon; before that time I shouldn't meet a boat that stops at our landing. That would make a delay of twenty-four hours." She looked at him as she said this, with a sort of unconscious appeal.
"I doubt whether anything very exciting could happen over there in twice twenty-four; it isn't an exciting place."
"Of course you think me obstinate. But I cannot help feeling that I ought to go."
"Perfectly natural," said Betty. "I should feel just the same in your place—I know I should—not hearing for so long."
"It's that—the silence," said Margaret. "I have been disturbed about it for several days."