One thing at least he had done; he had taken the joy out of his life forever.
And here, answering a rap at the door, he opened it upon Lou Macon. She wore a dress of some very soft material. It was a pale blue—faded, no doubt—but the color blended exquisitely with her hair and with the flush of her face. It came to Donnegan that it was an unnecessary cruelty of chance that made him see the girl lovelier than he had ever seen her before at the very moment when he was surrendering the last shadow of a claim upon her.
And it hurt him, also, to see the freshness of her face, the clear eyes; and to hear her smooth, untroubled voice. She had lived untouched by anything save the sunshine in The Corner.
Her glance flicked across his face and then fluttered down, and her color increased guiltily.
"I have come to ask you a favor," she said.
"Step in," said Donnegan, recovering his poise at length.
At this, she looked past him, and her eyes widened a little. There was an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, as though the very thought of entering this cabin horrified her. And Donnegan had to bear that look as well.
"I'll stay here; I haven't much to say. It's a small thing."
"Large or small," said Donnegan eagerly. "Tell me!"
"My father has asked me to take a letter for him down to the town and mail it. I—I understand that it would be dangerous for me to go alone. Will you walk with me?"