Then he thought of Helen and her strong purpose in life, her devotion and sacrifice.
"I must go to her!" he cried resolutely. "I owe her—much, much!"
CHAPTER XXV
The pines and the hemlocks stood out sharply against a pink, throbbing sky in which the stars still shone faintly but brilliantly. It was five o'clock of a dim morning, and no one was astir in the In-Place as the little steamer indolently turned from the Big Bay into the Channel and headed for the wharf.
Not a breath of air seemed stirring, and the stillness was unbroken except by the panting of the engines.
Priscilla Glenn stood near the gangway of the boat. Now that she had left all her beautiful love and life, she was eager to hide, like a hurt and bruised thing, in the old, familiar home. Leaning her poor, tired head against the post near her, she thought of the desolate wreck behind, and the tears came to the deep, true eyes.
"I could have done—nothing else!" she murmured, as if to comfort the sad thing she was. "It had to be! Margaret knew that; she understood. By now she is as bereft as I; poor, dear love! Oh! it seems, just sometimes it seems, like an army of men on one side and all of us women on the other. Between us lies the great battlefield, and they, the men, are trying to fight alone—fight our battle as well as theirs. And—they cannot! they cannot!"
Just then the boat touched the wharf, and a sleepy man, a stranger to Priscilla, materialized and looked at her queerly.
"For the Lodge?" he grunted.