Margaret, who, though tired out, had kept up her spirits all day, had wandered off by herself a little way into the silent woods during a half hour's rest and had sunk down on a bed of moss behind the lean-to. There, half hidden by a thicket of balsam, Holcomb had discovered her pitiful little figure huddled in the rough ulster. She did not hear him until he stood over her and, bending, laid his hand on the upturned collar of the overcoat that lay damp against the fair hair.
"Don't cry," he had said tenderly; "we'll soon be out of this."
"I know," she returned faintly, meeting his eyes in an effort to be brave, "but—but—Billy, I'm so unhappy."
"But that's because you're tired out. That's what's the matter. It's been too rough a trip for you. I told Holt yesterday we must go slower."
"No," she moaned, "no—it's not that."
"But it will come out all right," he pleaded, "I feel sure of it. Think of it—to-morrow you will be out of the woods and—and—safely on your way home." Yet he was not sure of either.
She looked up at him with her brown eyes wide open, her lips trembling.
"But then you will be gone, Billy!"
His own lips trembled now. That which he had tried all these days to tell her, she had told him out of her frank young heart. He took one of her plump, little hands in both his own, holding it as gently as he would have held a wounded bird. A strange sensation of weakness stole through him. He bent lower, until his bronzed cheek felt the flush of her own through the maze of spun gold. Then he sank on his knees in the damp moss, pressing his lips to the warm fingers.
"God knows!" he burst out, "I have no right to talk to you. I've tried not to, but I must tell you."