Her wandering attention was recalled by a movement of her patient. She glanced round at him, and his face was turned toward her. Her smiling eyes responded to his steady, contemplative gaze.
"Well?" he said, in a grave, subdued voice, "it ought to be getting near now?"
The girl nodded.
"I don't see how we can tell exactly, but—unless anything goes wrong the first logs should get through before daylight. It's good to think of, Dave." Her eyes sparkled with delight at the prospect.
The man eyed her for a few silent moments, and his eyes deepened to a passionate warmth.
"You're a great little woman, Betty," he said at last. "When I think of all you have done for me—well, I just feel that my life can never be long enough to repay you in. Throughout this business you have been my second self, with all the freshness and enthusiasm of a mind and heart thrilling with youthful strength. I can never forget the journey down from the camp. When I think of the awful physical strain you must have gone through, driving day and night, with a prisoner beside you, and a useless hulk of a man lying behind, I marvel. When I think that you had to do everything, feed us, camp for us, see to the horses for us, it all seems like some fantastic dream. How did you do it? How did I come to let you? It makes me smile to think that I, in my manly superiority, simply lolled about with a revolver handy to enforce our prisoner's obedience to your orders. Ah, little Betty, I can only thank Almighty God that I have been blest with such a little—friend."
The girl laid the tips of her fingers over his mouth.
"You mustn't say these things," she said, in a thrilling voice. "We—you and I—are just here together to work out your—your plans. God has been very, very good to me that He has given me the power, in however small a degree, to help you. Now let us put these things from our minds for a time and be—be practical. Talking of our prisoner, what are you going to do with—poor Jim?"
It was some moments before Dave answered her. It was not that he had no answer to her question, but her words had sent his mind wandering off among long past days. He was thinking of the young lad he had so ardently tried to befriend. He was thinking of the "poor Jim" of then and now. He was recalling that day when those two had come to him with their secret, with their youthful hope of the future, and of all that day had meant to him. They had planned, he had planned, and now it was all so—different. His inclination was to show this man leniency, but his inclination had no power to alter his resolve.
When he spoke there was no resentment in his tone against the man who had so cruelly tried to ruin him, only a quiet decision.