“Why am I going on?” she said. “The voice was so far away that I scarcely heard it; perhaps it was only a dream. Besides, whom am I following?” She walked on again. “I expect it’s father,” she said at last. “He’s the only thing worth following. If I could find him I should be happy.”
As this grew into a conviction she gained hope and courage and pressed onward. But still the great gnarled forest grew in silence and in grandeur, and ever the path grew harder to tread.
It seemed then as if she grew so very tired that one foot would scarcely move before the other, but still she went along, till at last in extreme weariness and pain she fell down under a large tree among a great heap of dying leaves.
Then through one of the big black avenues of trees had come the figure from the picture, the man on whom she had looked with such curious interest when the print was first hung.
It seemed as if from that point a good many roads branched off, all dark and rutted and gloomy.
He glanced down some of the paths and bent his brows as if to try to pierce the darkness, and presently his eyes lighted on Deborah lying there.
Now Deborah was very pleased to find this man. By some curious process which she did not understand he had long ago left the picture and passed, a real and substantial figure, into that other world of hers, so that in the midst of all this loneliness she quite felt she had found a friend.
Instead of that he only looked at her very thoughtfully and coldly, and with a rather unfriendly surprise, and turned away.
It was a very great blow to her, as naturally she could not realise that although she had always been looking at him he never before had looked at her.
Just as he was turning away he turned back again.