“Well, I'm sorry. I had hoped”—
“Yes,” said she, with a modest interrogation, as he hesitated, “what is it you had hoped?”
“That I might indirectly be the means of making your life less lonely here. You remember that 'experiment' we talked about at the spring?”
“That you talked about, you mean.”
“I am going to try it myself. Not because you were so encouraging,—but—it's a risk anyway, you know, and I'm not sure the circumstances make so much difference. I've known people to be wretched with all the modern conveniences. I am going East for her in about two weeks. How sorry she will be to find you gone! I wrote to her about you. You might have helped each other; couldn't you stand it, Miss Newell, don't you think, if you had another girl?”
“I'm afraid not,” she said very gently. “I must go home. You may be sure she will not need me; you must see to it that she doesn't need—any one.”
They were walking back and forth on the hill.
“I was just looking for the cottonwood-trees; are they gone too?” she asked.
“Oh yes; there isn't a tree left in the cañon. Don't you envy me my work?”
“I suppose everything we do seems like desecration to somebody. Here am I making history very rapidly for this colony of ants.” She looked down with a rueful smile as she spoke.