“Well, you’re going out,” said she at last, the first to break the silence.
“Yes, I’m going out.” His voice was low and deep. It seemed to her that she now for the first time realized its even vibrancy.
At last: “What will become of the work here?” she began.
“I can’t tell as to that, Mrs. Haddon,” said he. “It must wait.” She made no reply, and he went on:
“You see, all my life has been pretty much the same thing. I’ve always had to look ahead and did not dare look at things between. Once this school up here on the hill was all I looked at—and there wasn’t anything between. There’s other work afoot that’s even bigger, now. Maybe after that I’ll be fit for this.”
“You’ve done wonderfully well. It’s scarce less than a miracle—how you’ve got on.”
“At least I’ve told you all about myself,” said he after a time. “I’ve nothing more to say—now or at any other time.”
“You need say nothing,” she rejoined. “Life goes hard for all of us sometimes.” She was conscious of her banality, but found herself, as so often, dumb in her largest emotions.
“It was a hard enough start,” he assented. “It’s hard enough for all of us in here. I’m not so old.”
“No. You only seem old to me. I suppose that’s because you have had to do so much in so short a time. But I’m older, too. It’s a sad country—did you ever stop to think how few people smile, down here in these mountains?”