“He’s off prospecting.”
“When will he be back?”
“After I’m gone, I guess.”
“Oh, you are leaving here?” and the moment she said it she felt the cruelty of the question.
But he only answered “Yes,” and left her to miss or to divine his meaning. Looking in his face she forgot his character of hermit, and fell to wondering whom he had in the world to care about his leaving it. Instinctively she knew that a man with such a spirit looking out of eyes like those—for a man like this to die, meant to some one far away the worst that could befall. And suddenly she felt that she was enviable, being there, if in some way she could help him. What was there she might do?
He glanced at the foot of the bed, where the old dog lay at his feet. “When did you say you were going back to your ship?”
“Not for an hour or so,” she said. “More than long enough for me to—when did you eat last?”
“If you’d give me a little water,” he spoke huskily.
She went to a zinc bucket that stood in the corner. “I’m afraid this isn’t fresh,” she said.
“Yes. An old fellow brought it only an hour ago. There’s the cup.”