[III]
VOICES
Dragging his lagging feet, Gallatin struggled on until his task was finished. He took the saucepan and cup to the stream, washed them carefully, and filled them with water. Then he untied the handkerchief from around his neck and washed that, too. When he got back to the fire, he found the girl lying on the couch, her head pillowed on her arm, her eyes gazing into the fire.
“I’ve brought some water. I thought you might like to wash your face,” he said.
“Thanks,” gratefully. “You’re very thoughtful.”
He mended the fire for the night, and waiting until she had finished her impromptu toilet, took the saucepan to the stream and rinsed it again. Then he cleared the remains of the fish away, hung the creels together on the limb of a tree and, without looking toward the shelter, threw himself down beside the fire, utterly exhausted.
“Good night,” she said. He turned his head toward her. The firelight was dancing in her eyes, which were as wide open as his own.
“Good night,” he said pleasantly, “and pleasant dreams.”
“I don’t seem to be a bit sleepy—are you?”