But the sick man followed with eager eyes the laying of every crosswise stick, his gaunt frame huddled over his treasure while he watched the making of the sacrificial fire that should devour it. If his eyes left Hildegarde’s hands a moment, it was only that they might guard the door against surprise.
Once again, “Look out,” he said, “and see—”
“There’s no one. But wouldn’t you like somebody to come in? Some face out of the past—”
“To come now!”
“Some one who could bring you news of—that girl you—”
“Remember wood’s worth more than gold up here! Keep a little back.”
“Keep some back?”
“Paper like this burns slow. As you say some one might interrupt—” No hospitality in the look he sent to the door. “Before you light it, have everything over there, ready to feed the fire.” His thin arms gathered up the store. Ky growled uneasily as Hildegarde drew near, the girl wondering what was best for Galbraith’s peace, what was of any avail.
He made a motion to give her all he held, but what he actually handed over was the torn crayon, and even in the act of giving up that he set one fragment against another, looking his last.
“Oh, keep it—let me keep it—for her. Could you bear to hear—”