“No,” he said, more gravely; “I’ll send your brother his horses, but I don’t think I’ll come back. It’s nice to feel that we have been pretty good friends, but it might spoil any pleasant impression I’m leaving if you saw too much of me. Besides, I’m a wanderer; the long trail beckons.”
“It runs through swamps and many rough places into the lonely wilds. Aren’t you afraid of weariness?”
Kermode smiled, falling into her mood.
“You may remember that there are compensations,” he said; “glimpses of glory on the untrodden heights. It’s true that one never gets there, but they lead one on.”
“But you can see them from the valley.”
“No; the farmer’s eyes are fixed on the furrow; he must follow the plow. His crop and his stock are nearer him; he cannot see past them. The wanderer’s mind is free.”
“When you had that glimpse of glory, you turned away and looked for household smoke.”
“There you have me,” he laughed. “Inconsistent, wasn’t it? But we’re only human: one needs rest and food.”
Helen changed the subject.
“Well,” she declared, “I’m grateful; and if it’s any comfort, you won’t be forgotten.”