There was a third shadow and they shared this mutually if silently—Mathison's inevitable departure for English waters.
"John," she said, one afternoon, "I'm so happy that it hurts."
He laughed and swung her into his arms, which never ceased to be hungry for her; and there was always a sharp little stab when he let her go. The hour was fast approaching when he would have to let her go, perhaps forever....
"Glorious up here, isn't it?"
"But why do you bar the windows and doors so carefully at night? There can't be any burglars in this wilderness, at least not in the winter."
"You never can tell. Sometimes there are mighty high winds around these diggings. You heard how the windows rattled last night." Mathison reached for his cup of tea. So she had noticed?
"How your mother must have loved this place!"
"What makes you think that?"
"Why, it fairly breathes of love; the beauty of all the furnishings and the way they are arranged. What fun it must have been—and you toddling around after her! Come; I want to show you something." She led over to a corner, and there in a heap were rows of battered leaden soldiers, twisted leaden swords, and forts of wood. "War, battle," went on Hilda, soberly; "even as little children. What has happened to the souls of men, that from generation to generation the male child's toys must be these? Must women always suffer to see these things about? I found them in the garret."