“The wind is changing,” said the woman. “The lovely autumn has been kind and has stayed long.”
“My dear, my dear––don’t!” Northrup pleaded.
“Oh! but I must. You see I want you to think back, as I shall––at all this as great happiness. Come, let us go down the trail. I want you to tell me about your city, the place where you belong! I must picture you there now.”
Northrup kept the small right hand in his as they turned. It was a cold hand and it trembled in his grasp, but there was a steel-like quality in it, too.
It was tragic, this strength of the girl who had drawn her understanding of life from hidden sources. Northrup knew that she was seeking to smooth his way on ahead; to take the bitterness from a memory that, without her sacrifice, might hold him back from what had been, was, and must always be, inevitable. She was ignoring the weak, tempted moment and linking the past with all that the future must hold for them both.
There was only the crude, simple course for him to follow––to accept the commonplace, turn and face life as one turns from a grave that hides a beautiful thing.
“You have never been to the city?”
There was nothing to do but resort to words. Superficial, foolish words.
“Yes, once. On my wedding trip.”
This was unfortunate, but words without thought are wild things.