“I am that. But I don't care. Besides, when I used to go out to my uncle's farm near Saint Joe I always found riding to be a cure for aches.”
“Sure is, if you can stand it. An' what will your sister like to do?” returned Dale, turning to Helen.
“Oh, I'll rest, and watch you folks—and dream,” replied Helen.
“But after you've rested you must be active,” said Dale, seriously. “You must do things. It doesn't matter what, just as long as you don't sit idle.”
“Why?” queried Helen, in surprise. “Why not be idle here in this beautiful, wild place? just to dream away the hours—the days! I could do it.”
“But you mustn't. It took me years to learn how bad that was for me. An' right now I would love nothin' more than to forget my work, my horses an' pets—everythin', an' just lay around, seein' an' feelin'.”
“Seeing and feeling? Yes, that must be what I mean. But why—what is it? There are the beauty and color—the wild, shaggy slopes—the gray cliffs—the singing wind—the lulling water—the clouds—the sky. And the silence, loneliness, sweetness of it all.”
“It's a driftin' back. What I love to do an' yet fear most. It's what makes a lone hunter of a man. An' it can grow so strong that it binds a man to the wilds.”
“How strange!” murmured Helen. “But that could never bind ME. Why, I must live and fulfil my mission, my work in the civilized world.”
It seemed to Helen that Dale almost imperceptibly shrank at her earnest words.