"I don't care a rap who I may prove to be! If only this peaceful sense of security will last, I want to remain Marcia Farrell to the end."
But I knew it could not last. I hinted as much to Jamie Macleod only three days before the fifteenth of November. We were making our last trip to the village for some extra supplies for Angélique. We were alone, and I was driving.
"Jamie," I said suddenly, after the old and trustworthy cart-horse, newly and sharply shod for the ice, had taken us safely over the frozen creek, "I wish this might last, don't you?"
He looked at me a little doubtfully.
"You mean the kind of life we 're living now? Yes,"—he hesitated,—"for some reasons I do; but there are others, and for those it is better that the change should come."
"What others?" I was at times boldly inquisitive of Jamie; I took liberties with his youth.
"You would n't understand them if I told you. Wait till the others come and you 'll see, in part, why."
"Do you know," I continued, my words following my thought, "that you 've never told me a thing about Doctor Rugvie and Mr. Ewart?"
"Not told you anything? Why, I thought I 'd said enough that first evening for you to know as much of them as you can without seeing them."
"No, you have n't; you 've been like a clam so far as telling me anything about their looks, or age, or—or anything—"