He indicated a portrait with a nod. It was in an earlier, a smoother, and less characteristic style. To the man who was no artist it was a very beautiful painting of a very beautiful girl.
"My dead wife," said the artist, as Salt stood in silent admiration. "I have buried her this afternoon."
The man who had never known or even seen her felt a stab as he looked up at the lovely, smiling face.
"Well," said the painter roughly, "why don't you say how sorry you are, or some platitude of that sort?"
Salt turned away, to leave the other alone meeting the sweet eyes. "Because I cannot say how sorry I am," he replied with gentle pity.
"Oh, my beloved!" he heard the whisper. "Not long, not long."
"You are packing," Salt continued a minute later. "Let me help you—with some."
A heap of straw and shavings littered the floor; boxes and cases stood ready at hand.
"No," replied the man, looking moodily at his preparations. "I have changed my mind. I have to go on a journey to-night, but I shall leave this place as it is and secure the doors and windows instead."
He brought tools, and together they nailed across the cottage windows the stout old-fashioned shutters that secured them. Neither spoke much.