They chose to walk to find Lory’s aunt, lured by the large village aspect of the place. And as they walked, there leaped up for them from the roofs the insistent, dominant shaft of the monument.
“Thanks be,” said the Inger. “There’s somethin’ to shin up. It begun to look to me like the East is a place where all the trails laid flat.”
“I kind of like it here, though,” Lory said apologetically.
“Seems like there’s more folks and their stuff, and less of God and his stuff,” the Inger offered after a pause.
Lory shook her head. Her hair was in disorder, and the soot of the train filmed her face, but her look was strangely radiant.
“I donno. I feel like there was lots of God around,” she said.
She had waked the previous morning in the dimness of the coach and had found her head on his shoulder, his cheek on her hair, her hand in his hand. For a moment she lay still, remembering. Then she lifted her face slowly, lest she should waken him. But he was awake and smiled down at her, without moving, save that his clasp a little tightened. She struggled up, her flushed face still near his.
“Your arm,” she said; “ain’t it near dead?”
He sat quietly, and still smiling. “I give you my word,” he said, “I ain’t once thought of myself in connection with that arm’s dyin’.”