Whispering Smith, lying on his iron bed in the hospital, professed not to be able quite to understand why they had made such a fuss about it. He underwent the excitement of the appearance of Barnhardt and the first talk with McCloud and Dicksie with hardly a rise in his temperature, and, lying in the sunshine of the afternoon, he was waiting for Marion. When she opened the door his face was turned wistfully toward it. He held out his hands with the old smile. She ran half blinded across the room and dropped on her knee beside him.
“My dear Marion, why did they drag you away out here?”
“They did not drag me away out here. Did 421 you expect me to sit with folded hands when I heard you were ill anywhere in the wide world?”
He looked hungrily at her. “I didn’t suppose any one in the wide world would take it very seriously.”
“Mr. McCloud is crushed this afternoon to think you have said you would not go back with him. You would not believe how he misses you.”
“It has been pretty lonesome for the last year. I didn’t think it could be so lonesome anywhere.”
“Nor did I.”
“Have you noticed it? I shouldn’t think you could in the mountains. Was there much water last spring? Heavens, I’d like to see the Crawling Stone again!”
“Why don’t you come back?”
He folded her hands in his own. “Marion, it is you. I’ve been afraid I couldn’t stand it to be near you and not tell you–––”