VII
THE WALK IN THE RAIN
Norcross, with his city training, was acutely conscious of the delicacy of the situation. In his sister’s circle a girl left alone in this way with a man would have been very seriously embarrassed; but it was evident that Berrie took it all joyously, innocently. Their being together was something which had happened in the natural course of weather, a condition for which they were in no way responsible. Therefore she permitted herself to be frankly happy in the charm of their enforced intimacy.
She had never known a youth of his quality. He was so considerate, so refined, so quick of understanding, and so swift to serve. He filled her mind to the exclusion of unimportant matters like the snow, which was beginning again; indeed, her only anxiety concerned his health, and as he toiled amid the falling flakes, intent upon heaping up wood enough to last out the night, she became solicitous.
“You will be soaked,” she warningly cried. “Don’t stay out any more. Come to the fire. I’ll bring in the wood.”
Something primeval, some strength he did not know he possessed sustained him, and he toiled on. “Suppose this snow keeps falling?” he retorted. “The Supervisor will not be able to get back to-night—perhaps not for a couple of nights. We will need a lot of fuel.”
He did not voice the fear of the storm which filled his thought; but the girl understood it. “It won’t be very cold,” she calmly replied. “It never is during these early blizzards; and, besides, all we need to do is to drop down the trail ten miles and we’ll be entirely out of it.”
“I’ll feel safer with plenty of wood,” he argued; but soon found it necessary to rest from his labors. Coming in to camp, he seated himself beside her on a roll of blankets, and so together they tended the fire and watched the darkness roll over the lake till the shining crystals seemed to drop from a measureless black arch, soundless and oppressive. The wind died away, and the trees stood as if turned into bronze, moveless, save when a small branch gave way and dropped its rimy burden, or a squirrel leaped from one top to another. Even the voice of the waterfall seemed muffled and remote.
“I’m a long way from home and mother,” Wayland said, with a smile; “but—I like it.”
“Isn’t it fun?” she responded. “In a way it’s nicer on account of the storm. But you are not dressed right; you should have waterproof boots. You never can tell when you may be set afoot. You should always go prepared for rain and snow, and, above all, have an extra pair of thick stockings. Your feet are soaked now, aren’t they?”