With the fire roaring in the deep fireplace, for cheeriness rather than from the need of warmth, with a couple of misshapen, homemade candles upon the mantelpiece, her chair drawn up facing the bunk upon which her guest and patient lay—at her request he was smoking his pipe and enjoying it—Virginia Dalton at last satisfied the man’s curiosity as well as she could.
She and her father lived here together, had lived here for fifteen years. He had brought her, a baby of four, into this wilderness with him, had built the cabin, had made this home. Of the world outside she knew little more than she had known when her father brought her here—perhaps less; as even the child’s images of men and women and cities, and the things thereof, had been lost in the years. The father had taught her, had brought with them a few books, had been always very dear to her. She did not know why he lived here, away from his kind. He had once, long ago, told her that his health demanded it. Of late they had not mentioned the matter.
“But,” she ended, with a flush of eagerness lighting her face, “it’s nearly over! We’re going to leave soon; go back to the world where people are. Dear old Daddy came in just this afternoon, a little while before I went down to the lake, and I could see right away that something had happened. He didn’t say what it was—he doesn’t say much at any time; but he told me that he was going out again and might be gone all night; but that when he came back I could get ready to go! Isn’t it glorious?”
But Dick, to whom there had come a sudden fear, made no answer, frowning as he lay back staring up at the rough rafters.
CHAPTER VI
VIRGINIA GETS A LETTER
The night dragged by, bringing little sleep to Dick Farley, and Virginia Dalton’s father did not return. It was the longest night Dick had ever known. Hour after hour he sat propped up against the wall, the pillows behind him, and smoked, staring out through the open door at the shadows the moon made. They were deep black shadows, and his spirit was caught in them, strangely troubled. But at last, when the tardy day was breaking, the spark in his pipe-bowl died and he slipped down in his pillows and slept.
When he awoke, the sun was flinging its light through the tree-tops into the cabin. Nature’s was a soft mood this morning—smiling, fragrant, audible with many low, harmonious woodland notes. And through the weave of still music, rising suddenly, clearly, sweetly, a girl’s voice floated in to him in an old song. He watched the open door expectantly.
In a little while she came in, her voice hushed, walking tiptoe not to wake him, a rod in one hand, a string of lake-trout swinging from the other. Her smile was as gloriously a radiant thing as the morning itself when her eyes met his expectant ones.
“Good morning!” she greeted him, coming to his bedside. “Awake at last, are you? I was afraid I should have to breakfast alone.”
“Good morning,” he answered, his eyes filled with the rosy beauty of her glorious youth. “You have been fishing already!”