“Do you know,” she said at last, without changing her position, “our home is a wonderful place. It’s only a cottage. But a cottage may be quite wonderful. In summer vines grow all over it, and old fashioned roses bloom by its side. The song sparrow, quite unafraid, builds her nest in the vines and squirrels come from the woods to sit on our doorstep. It’s home.”
She repeated the word softly, “Home. Nothing in the world could be more wonderful than a home.”
Again silence, and the night closed in upon them.
“You are thinking,” said the girl at last.
“I was thinking of you and of your grandfather.”
“Grandfather is well worthy of your thoughts. He gave his two sons to his country. The war, that terrible war! They never came back. One was my father. I—I think my mother died of grief. But Grandfather, he just carried on.”
Yes, Johnny believed Gordon Duncan worthy of his thoughts. For the moment, however, he was thinking of the girl, following her in his mind’s eye over that long, long trail marked out on Gordon Duncan’s map; saw her making her way forward staunchly, fearlessly into the great unknown with an old man as her only companion.
“And then death overtakes her grandfather,” he whispered to himself.
He tried to picture her making her way alone, back over those endless perilous miles.
“It can’t be done,” he told himself again.