“I am thinking, Wanza—perhaps I shall go away.”
We were in the heart of the woods. A tinkling, sly little brook made the forest musical, the rustle and purr of the pines sounded about us like fluty organ notes. Wanza’s eyes were lifted to the sprightly shivering leaves of a cottonwood, and her face was very still. She did not move as I spoke, and I repeated my sentence.
“I thought you’d go,” she said. She spoke harshly.
“I can’t stop on here without Joey. I can’t bear it,” I said, haltingly.
“But I’ve got to stay on without either of you—and bear it.”
I saw her eyes. I recoiled at the depth of pain revealed.
“Mr. Dale,” she said gropingly, after a pause, “where are you going?”
“I don’t know, Wanza. But inaction is intolerable. I must be doing something. I must get away for awhile, at least. It is better.”
Wanza’s eyes were very bright. Her hands that were smoothing a maple leaf were trembling. Her voice sounded dry and hard as she asked:
“When do you reckon you’ll go?”