“I wouldn’t have come— but— I— I— thought you were— dead,” he said. “They told me— you were dead. I’m glad— glad— but I wouldn’t have come—”
She felt the weight of him for an instant on her arm. She knew the things that were in his face— starvation, pain, the signs of ravage left behind by fever. In these moments Billy did not see the wonderful look that had come into her own face or the wonderful glow in her eyes.
“It was Indian Joe’s mother who died,” he heard her say. “And since then we have been waiting— waiting— waiting— little Isobel and I. I went away north, to David’s grave, and I saw what you had done, and what you had burned into the wood. Some day, I knew, you’d come back to me. We’ve been waiting— for you—”
Her voice was barely more than a whisper, but Billy heard it; and all at once his dizziness was gone, and he saw the sunlight shining in Isobel’s bright hair and the look in her face and eyes.
“I’m sorry— sorry— so sorry I said what I did— about you— killing him,” she went on. “You remember— I said that if I got well—”
“Yes—”
“And you thought I meant that if I got well you should go away— and you promised— and kept your promise. But I couldn’t finish. It didn’t seem right— then. I wanted to tell you— out there— that I was sorry— and that if I got well you could come to me again— some day somewhere— and then—”
“Isobel!”
“And now— you may tell me again what you told me out on the Barren— a long time ago.”
“Isobel— Isobel—”