Truelove caught her breath. "Thee will be lonely in those forests."
"I am used to loneliness."
"There be Indians on the frontier. They burn houses and carry away prisoners. And there are wolves and dangerous beasts"—
"I am used to danger."
Truelove's voice trembled more and more. "And thee must dwell among negroes and rude men, with none to comfort thy soul, none to whom thee can speak in thy dark hours?"
"Before now I have spoken to the tobacco I have planted, the trees I have felled, the swords and muskets I have sold."
"But at last thee came and spoke to me!"
"Ay," he answered. "There have been times when you saved my soul alive. Now, in the forest, in my house of logs, when the day's work is done, and I sit upon my doorstep and begin to hear the voices of the past crying to me like the spirits in the valley of Glensyte, I will think of you instead."
"Oh!" cried Truelove. "Speak to me instead, and I will speak to thee ... sitting upon the doorstep of our house, when our day's work is done!"
Her hood falling back showed her face, clear pink, with dewy eyes. The carnation deepening from brow to throat, and the tears trembling upon her long lashes, she suddenly hid her countenance in her gray cloak. MacLean, on his knees beside her, drew away the folds. "Truelove, Truelove! do you know what you have said?"