“You mustn’t blame yourself,” she told him. “We have only gratitude for you. You have no part in the painful memories.”
She glanced once more up the valley; and then moved back into the shadow of the firs.
“It’s all wildly beautiful, but it’s so pitiless—I shall never think of it without a shiver.”
“You have made plenty of notes and sketches for the book,” suggested Lisle, seeing her distress.
“The book? I don’t know that I shall ever finish it. I feel cut adrift, as if there were no use in working and I hadn’t a purpose left. First George went, and then Clarence—so far, there was always some one to think of—and now I’m all alone.”
She broke out into open sobbing and Lisle, feeling very sympathetic and half dismayed, awkwardly tried to soothe her.
“I’m better,” she said at last. “It was very foolish, but I couldn’t help it. I think we’ll go back to the others.”
He gave her his arm, for the way was rough, but as they approached the camp she stopped a moment amid the shadow and stillness of the great fir trunks.
“I have done with the river—I think I am afraid of it,” she confessed. “Can’t we get away early to-morrow?”
Lisle said it should be arranged and she turned to him gratefully.