Beneath his joking he was profoundly chagrined. He had hoped by this time to be as sinewy, as alert as Nash, instead of which here he sat, shivering over the fire like a sick girl, his head swollen, his blood sluggish; but this discouragement only increased Berea’s tenderness—a tenderness which melted all his reserve.
“I’m not worth all your care,” he said to her, with poignant glance.
The sun rose clear and warm, and the fire, the coffee, put new courage into him as well as into the others, and while the morning was yet early and the forest chill and damp with rain, the surveyor brought up the horses and started packing the outfit.
In this Berrie again took part, doing her half of the work quite as dextrously as Nash himself. Indeed, the forester was noticeably confused and not quite up to his usual level of adroit ease.
At last both packs were on, and as they stood together for a moment, Nash said: “This has been a great experience—one I shall remember as long as I live.”
She stirred uneasily under his frank admiration. “I’m mightily obliged to you,” she replied, as heartily as she could command.
“Don’t thank me, I’m indebted to you. There is so little in my life of such companionship as you and Norcross give me.”
“You’ll find it lonesome over at the station, I’m afraid,” said she. “But Moore intends to put a crew of tie-cutters in over there—that will help some.” She smiled.
“I’m not partial to the society of tie-jacks.”
“If you ride hard you may find that Moore girl in camp. She was there when we left.” There was a sparkle of mischief in her glance.