She tipped forward and peered into it. “Are you asleep?” she asked. It was almost a whisper—solicitous, but firm.
He shook his head. The tired eyes opened and looked at her, full of a kind of sweet light. “I am—resting,” he said.
She nestled a little nearer to him, carelessly, and looked into the fire. Presently she hummed to herself....a little crooning song—half words, half happiness: Then she left him and wandered about the room, touching things with grave, respectful touches, but with liveliest curiosity in the peering brown eyes. When she had finished, she went toward the door. “I am going, now,” she announced.
He dared not put out a finger to stay her and his eyes did not lift themselves from the flames. “Come again,” he said carelessly.
“Yes,” she replied. It was a very grave little word—full of assurance and comradeship.
Then she opened the door and went out.
The fire flared in the sudden gust and he looked around. The door—too heavy for her to close—swung wide to the October sun, and down the path the sturdy brown figure was trudging, holding intent on its way.
Simeon moved to the door and stood looking after it. The sun shone clear.... Everywhere the serene, level light and in the midst of it, moving steadily on, a quaint, sturdy figure.... He put up his hand impatiently, brushing aside something that hindered his gaze. When he withdrew the hand, he looked down at it and thrust it out of sight, perplexed and savage and stirred.... “God bless me!” he said, “I’m growing soft!”
He closed the door and went back to the seat by the fire, wondering a little that he should care.
“She will not come,” he said as he looked into the deep coals. But in his heart he knew. She came again and again—sometimes every day and sometimes with long intervals between. When this occurred, Simeon would grow restless and go often to the window to look where the path emerged from the undergrowth. It never seemed to occur to him to follow the path.