“Jack wants to go away from here,” she said. “But I can’t go. I can’t go. I always keep thinking that some day when I am walking through the scrub I might find—something. And then at least I would have the little grave. It would be easier than having just nothing. Jack doesn’t like me to go looking, now. But I have to keep on. When you’ve put your baby to bed every night for three years—kissed her and played with her—how she used to laugh!—and heard her say her little prayers, and tucked her in, you can’t settle down to leaving her alone at night out in the timber. You just can’t do it.”
Again the voice ceased, and she sat staring out of the open window. After a long while she got up, still holding Norah’s hand.
“Good-night,” she said. “Perhaps I oughtn’t to have told you. But I had to, somehow. If it hadn’t been this kind of a day I could have told you lots of funny little things she used to do.” And with that dreadful little speech on her lips she went away.
CHAPTER XVI
BEYOND THE PLAINS
The little feet have left the house,
The little voice is still;
Without, the wan, wind-weary boughs;
Within, the will
To go and hear the wee feet tread