“Shore you go alone,” replied the cowboy, hanging back. “Girls is not my job.”
So Neale approached alone. The spot was green, fragrant, shady, bright with flowers, musical with murmuring water. Presently he spied her—a drooping, forlorn little figure. The instant he saw her he felt glad and sad at once. She started quickly at his step and turned. He remembered the eyes, but hardly the face. It had grown thinner and whiter than the one he had in mind.
“My Lord! she’s going to die!” breathed Neale. “What can I do—what can I say to her?”
He walked directly but slowly up to her, aware of her staring eyes, and confused by them.
“Hello! little girl, I’ve brought you some things,” he said, and tried to speak cheerfully.
“Oh—is—it you?” she said, brokenly.
“Yes, it’s Neale. I hope you’ve not forgotten me.”
There came a fleeting change over her, but not in her face, he thought, because not a muscle moved, and the white stayed white. It must have been in her eyes, though he could not certainly tell. He bent over to untie the pack.
“I’ve brought you a lot of things,” he said. “Hope you’ll find them useful. Here—”
She did not look at the open pack or pay any attention to him. The drooping posture had been resumed, together with the somber staring at the brook. Neale watched her in despair, and, watching, he divined that only the most infinite patience and magnetism and power could bring her out of her brooding long enough to give nature a chance. He recognized how unequal he was to the task. But the impossible or the unattainable had always roused Neale’s spirit. Defeat angered him. This girl was alive; she was not hurt physically; he believed she could be made to forget that tragic night of blood and death. He set his teeth and swore he would display the tact of a woman, the patience of a saint, the skill of a physician, the love of a father—anything to hold back this girl from the grave into which she was fading. Reaching out, he touched her.