And then one day I made up my mind suddenly to go to her.
At the first glimpse I had of her cabin, standing a crude, warped, misshapen thing on the slight rise of ground beneath the cedars, all my former resolves to give to this habitation some slight air of comfort and refinement rose up and confronted me, and I saw myself a weak fellow, who had nursed his despair and disappointment and failed in his duty to the woman he loved, and who in his cowardice had absented himself from his loved one, when he might have brought her comfort and neighborly assistance.
On the back of an old envelope with a stub of a pencil I made a rough sketch of the improvements I had long since planned, and when Haidee and Wanza came to the door, I greeted them calmly and showed them the sketch. Haidee stood there, without her crutches, her hair unbound about her ivory face. Her gown was white, and a scarf of rose color swung from her shoulders. She looked at me for a long moment with eyes dull and faded as morning stars, and then gradually the old familiar light came back into her face, her eyes warmed and grew human. She stepped outside, and joined me on the porch.
“You have laid aside your crutches?” I ventured.
“Yes.”
“You are well?” I asked.
“Oh, yes! I work—hard—at various things. Do I not, Wanza? I sleep. I have a splendid appetite. And you?”
“I work. I sleep well, too. I drop asleep in the Dingle occasionally after a hard day’s work. The Dingle is Wanza’s retreat—she walks there. Do you know it, Wanza?”
She came to my side quickly. Her face displayed signs of perturbation. “I walk there! What do you mean? Have you seen me?”
“You come on tip-toe. It is hardly walking.”