"Do the trees drink? Do the trees and the bushes drink, John Logan? Their faces get awfully red in the fall, too."
"Carrie, you are cross to-day."
Carrie, shrugging her shoulders and shaking her dress as if she would shake it off her, snaps: "I ain't cross."
"Yes, you are," and the tawny man comes up to her and speaks in a kindly tone: "But come. Many a pleasant walk we have had in these woods together, and many a pleasant time we will have together still."
"We won't!"
"Ah, but we will! Come, you must not be so cross!"
The girl leans her forehead against the tree on her lifted arm, and swings her other foot. She looks down at the rounded ankle, and says, almost savagely, to herself; "She's got bigger feet than I have. She's got nearly twice as big feet, she has."
John Logan looks at the girl with a profound tenderness, as she stands there, pouting and swinging her foot. He attempts to approach her, but she still holds her brow bowed to the tree upon her arm, and seems not to see him. He shoulders his gun and walks past her, and says, kindly,
"Good-bye, Carrie."
But the girl's eyes are following him, although she would not be willing to admit it, even to herself. As he is about to disappear, she thrusts her hand madly through her hair, and pulls it down all in a heap. Still looking at him under her brows, still swinging her foot wildly, she says: