“Yes; but that isn’t what I mean,” she answered in a hopeless voice.
Again both were silent. The baby in her arms commenced to fret. She soothed and patted it to sleep—softly, sadly crooning to it. By this time, the lingering twilight had faded out; it was quite dark in the forest. Advancing to her side, Douglas laid his hand upon her arm and began:
“Amy Larkin——”
“Amy Hilliard!” she interrupted shrilly.
He drew back as though a venomous insect had stung him. Her voice grated harshly upon his nerves. To his overwrought imagination, she seemed a lost soul mocking at its own misery. Taking her by the arm, he remarked quietly:
“You’re tired. There’s no use in your standing. Seat yourself upon this log.”
Silently she obeyed, trembling in every limb. Picking up her cloak, he placed it around her shoulders. His act of kindness softened her feelings; and her voice was tremulous as she said simply:
“Thank you!”
He stood looking down upon her, conflicting thoughts and emotions rioting in his brain. At last he murmured huskily: