"I come here often," answered Mary, making room for him to sit beside her.
"I wish I'd known it sooner," muttered the Deputy.
"I like to listen to the rapids, and catch glimpses of the water slipping away blindly in the dark," said Mary. "It helps one not to think," she added with a faint catch in her voice.
"Why should you not want to think, Mary?" protested Blackstock.
"How dreadfully dry everything is," replied Mary irrelevantly, as if heading Blackstock off. "What if there should be a fire at the mill? Wouldn't the whole village go, like a box of matches? People might get caught asleep in their beds. Oughtn't there to be more than one night watchman in such dry weather as this? I've so often heard of mills catching fire—though I don't see why they should, any more than houses."
"Mills most generally git set afire," answered the Deputy grimly. "Think what it would mean to Harner's Bend if these mills should git burnt down now! It would mean thousands and thousands to them. But you're dead right, Mary, about the danger to the village. Only it depends on the wind. This time o' year, an' as long as it keeps dry, what wind there is blows mostly away from the houses, so sparks and brands would just be carried out over the river. But if the wind should shift to the south'ard or thereabouts, yes, there'd be more watchmen needed. I s'pose you're thinkin' about your shop while ye're away?"
"I was thinking about Woolly Billy," said Mary gravely. "What do I care about the old shop? It's insured, anyway."
"I'll look out for Woolly Billy," answered Blackstock. "And I'll look out for the shop, whether you care about it or not. It's yours, and your name's on the door, and anything of yours, anything you've touched, an' wherever you've put your little foot, that's something for me to care about. I ain't no hand at making pretty speeches, Mary, or paying compliments, but I tell you these here old sawdust roads are just wonderful to me now, because your little feet have walked on 'em. Ef only I could think that you could care—that I had anything, was anything, Mary, worth offering you——"
He had taken her hand, and she had yielded it to him. He had put his great arm around her shoulders and drawn her to him,—and for a moment, with a little shiver, she had leant against him, almost cowered against him, with the air of a frightened child craving protection. But as he spoke on, in his quiet, strong voice, she suddenly tore herself away, sprang off to the other end of the pile of deals, and began to sob violently.
He followed her at once. But she thrust out both hands.