With hardly a word, Dick lay for an hour, watching the pine branches wave about him and listening to the voices that came from the woods around and from the waters below, till the fever and the doubt passed from his heart and he grew strong and ready for the road again.
“You don't know how good this is, Margaret,” he said, “all this about me. No, it's you. It's you, Margaret. If I could see you oftener I could bear it better. You shame me and you make me a man again. Oh, Margaret! if only you could let me hope that some day—”
“Look, Dick!” she cried, springing to her feet, “there's the train.”
It was still a novelty to see the long line of cars wind its way like some great jointed reptile through the woods below.
“Tell me, Margaret,” continued Dick, “is it quite impossible?”
“Oh, Dick!” cried the girl, her face full of pain, “don't ask me!”
“Can it never be, Margaret, in the years to come?”
She clasped her hands above her heart. “Dick,” she cried piteously, “I can't see how it can be. My heart is not my own. While Barney lives I could not be true and be another's wife.”
“While Barney lives!” echoed Dick blankly. “Then God grant you may never be mine!” He stood straight for a moment, then with a shake of his shoulders, as if adjusting a load, he stepped into the path. “Come, let us go,” he said. “There will be letters and I must get to work.”
“Yes, Dick dear,” said Margaret, her voice full of tender pity, “there's always our work, thank God!”