Then Thorpe told her.
“I've fixed it, Helen,” said he. “You can attend the High School and the classes, if you please. I have put the two hundred and fifty dollars out at interest for you.”
“Oh, Harry!” she cried reproachfully. “Why didn't you tell me before!”
He did not understand; but the pleasure of it had all faded. She no longer felt enthusiasm, nor gratitude, nor anything except a dull feeling that she had been unnecessarily discouraged. And on his side, Thorpe was vaguely wounded.
The days, however, passed in the main pleasurably for them both. They were fond of one another. The barrier slowly rising between them was not yet cemented by lack of affection on either side, but rather by lack of belief in the other's affection. Helen imagined Thorpe's interest in her becoming daily more perfunctory. Thorpe fancied his sister cold, unreasoning, and ungrateful. As yet this was but the vague dust of a cloud. They could not forget that, but for each other, they were alone in the world. Thorpe delayed his departure from day to day, making all the preparations he possibly could at home.
Finally Helen came on him busily unpacking a box which a dray had left at the door. He unwound and laid one side a Winchester rifle, a variety of fishing tackle, and some other miscellanies of the woodsman. Helen was struck by the beauty of the sporting implements.
“Oh, Harry!” she cried, “aren't they fine! What are you going to do with them?”
“Going camping,” replied Thorpe, his head in the excelsior.
“When?”
“This summer.”