“There is no need of paper; he’ll remember. Just mention them over. Coffee,––is there any tea beside that you have?”
“No, but no need. I name it not.”
“Tea is light and easily brought. What else?”
“And paper. I ask for that but for me to write my little 218 romance of all this––forgive––it is for occupation in the long winter. You also must write of your experiences––perhaps––of your history of––of––You like it not? Why, Mr. ’Arry! It is to make work for the mind. The mind must work––work––or die. The hands––well. I make lace with the hands––but for the mind is music––or the books––but here are no books––good––we make them. So, paper I ask, and of crayon––Alas! It is in the box! What to do?”
“Listen. We’ll have that box, and bring it here on the mountain. I’ll get it.”
“Ah, no! No. Will you break my heart?” She seized his arm and looked in his eyes, her own brimming with tears. Then she flung up her arms in her dramatic way, and covered her eyes. “I can see it all so terrible. If you should go there and the Indian strike you dead––or the snow come too soon and kill you with the cold––in the great drift lying white––all the terrible hours never to see you again––Ah, no!”
In that instant his heart leaped toward her and the blood roared in his ears. He would have clasped her to him, but he only stood rigidly still. “Hands off, murderer!” The words seemed shouted at him by his own conscience. “I would rather die––than that you should not have your box,” was all he said, and left the cabin. He, too, had need to think things out alone.