She drew away and looked from him across to where the merest rim of the rising moon was to be seen across 281 the hills. The thought of that other night came to her, the night when they had stood close to each other in the moonlight. How happy she had been for that one little space of time! And now—Ah! she scarcely dare allow him to speak kindly to her, lest she grow weak enough to long for that blind content once more.
“Come, Tana.”
“Go. I will follow after a little,” she answered, without turning her head.
“I may never trouble you to walk with you again,” he said, in a low, constrained tone; “but this time I must see you safe in the tent before I leave.”
“Leave! Going! Where to?” she asked, and her voice trembled in spite of herself. She clasped her hands tightly, and he could see the flash of the ring he had given her. She had put it on with the Indian dress.
“That does not matter much, does it?” he returned; “but somewhere, far enough up the lake not to trouble you again while you stay. Come.”
She walked beside him without another word; words seemed so useless. She had said words over and over again to herself all that day—words of his wrong to her in not telling her of that other woman, words of reproach, bitter and keen; yet none of her reasoning kept her from wanting to touch his hand as he walked beside her.
But she did not. Even when they reached the level by the springs, she only looked her farewell to him, but did not speak.
“Good-by,” he said, in a voice that was not like Dan’s voice.
She merely bowed her head, and walked away toward the tent where she heard Mrs. Huzzard laughing. 282