King laughed quietly to himself, and Anne turned to him. "Honest, King, it ain't no place for white people to live. It's been all right this summer with everybody round and things movin' a little—but the winter—an everybody away—God, you don't know how I hate the idea."
King got up from the table and went to the doorway. It had already begun to grow dusk and the air was cool and inviting. For a moment he stood looking into the street with its rambling houses and squat little cabins on either side.
"Anne," he said slowly, "some of us have to stay, I guess—stay here and see it through. It won't be easy—but it's the right thing to do—that's how I see it. Besides, it may be better than we think—wait and see."
While he talked his eyes were still turned towards the street. He did not look at the girl until he was through. Then he turned to her and looked at her where she stood, leaning against the table. Her eyes were on his face, and her gaze was long and steady. He had a suspicion that there were tears ready to come—there was something deeper and more thoughtful in them than he had ever seen there before. He knew that the girl was lonely, and that she had no friends.
"Anne," he said slowly, in a voice that was kindness itself, "you ought to get out more—you ought to ride out a little. You ought to walk."
She smiled and gave an impatient shrug to her shoulders.
"Walk—Lord!" Then she set about clearing the table and for a while both were silent. At last she set down a dish she held in her hand and came over to where King stood in the doorway.
"Haven't I walked?" she said in a voice that was tense with emotion. "Haven't I spent hours alone walking these trails up and down? That doesn't help any. I came in here because I wanted to get away by myself an' start all over again. Lord, I sure did it—I got away by myself all right. An' I got sick of it. Then I wanted to get out with people—honest-to-God-people that cared a little—no matter who. But where can I go? They think there's something wrong because I got into Mike's place the night of the scrap. They didn't like my way round here before that. Well, it's my way, isn't it? It's all I got. I don't owe anything—I'm square. But I want some one that will talk to me—an' talk right—not like a lot of these fellows want to talk. That's what I want."
King put out his hand and took her arm. "I guess that's right, Anne," he said. "I've felt like that. We'll talk—you and I—talk together sometimes. And then maybe—" he began to think of the possibility of Anne coming to know Cherry McBain.
"I've been wantin' to talk to you often," she said, very quietly and very slowly. "But you seemed to pass me up like the rest of them. Only I liked you because you looked square. An' I was afraid to talk to you—because I wanted you to like me."