For days Ross Douglas lay unconscious, fighting all the powers of fever
and delirium—battling for his life. Hiram Bradford was his constant
companion and nurse. La Violette was an able and devoted assistant.
On the day following his arrival in the village of the Miamis, Bradford
procured from a French trader—who had just come across from Canada—a
quantity of brandy, and a few drugs, the uses of which he knew. Armed
with these, he assumed the province of physician and strove manfully to
save the young man’s life.
La Violette was unremitting in her tender care. She prepared hot
poultices of cornmeal and dried herbs, which relieved the patient’s
distressing cough, and gave him rest, when all other means failed.
Several times a day she brought him nourishing broths, and coaxed him
to drink them. Her deft fingers rearranged his bed of furs; and her
caressing touch soothed him to slumber. When Bradford was snatching a
few hours’ sleep or taking exercise in the open air, the young woman sat
by the patient’s couch—all her soul in her beautiful face. At such times
her countenance was transfigured. Caressingly stroking Douglas’s raven
locks, damp with the dews of suffering, she fixed her violet eyes upon
his dark, handsome features and listened eagerly to the words that fell
from his lips. He was delirious—there was little sense to his babble. It
mattered not to La Violette; she loved to hear his voice.
When he tossed restively and coughed and moaned, she patted his great
brown hand and spoke soothingly to him. And with a smile flitting about
his mouth, he fell asleep. Then with swift, timorous glances around her,
she bent and tenderly pressed her ripe lips to his white brow. She was
drinking deeply of the rosy, intoxicating cup of love, unmindful of the
lees at the bottom.
Duke had a place in one corner of the cabin. At times he would leave his
bed and, trotting to his master’s couch, would fondly lick his hand. Then
he would throw himself upon the ground and intently watch all that was
going on. The hound barely tolerated Bradford’s presence, and would growl
warningly whenever the latter attempted any playful familiarity. But La
Violette could take the surly animal’s head upon her lap, and pull his
pendulous ears, with impunity.
One day Bradford lay asleep upon a pile of furs, in one corner of the
hut. La Violette was watching at Douglas’s side. A violent fit of
coughing assailed the patient, and he groaned aloud. His hands—growing
thinner and whiter day by day—clutched frantically at his throat. His
wan, emaciated countenance was contorted by a spasm of pain. Duke softly
trotted to the young woman’s side and, dropping at her feet, beseechingly
looked up into her face.
“Yes—yes, noble fellow,” La Violette murmured tearfully, “I will do all I
can for him. For”—in the faintest whisper—“we love him—you and I!”
At that moment Bradford awoke, and, through his half-closed lids,
dreamily watched the play before him. He saw La Violette pat the
dog’s head and whisper to him. Then she turned her attention to the
restless sufferer—renewing the poultice upon his chest, changing the
position of his head and gently soothing him to rest, as a mother would
quiet a fretful child. It was a pretty picture; and Bradford smiled a
self-satisfied smile, as he gazed upon it. He was about to close his
eyes, in an attempt to sleep again, when he observed La Violette bend
down and passionately kiss the unconscious man’s lips.
“Amy, Amy!” Douglas mumbled, his dry tongue hardly able to shape the
words. “Is it you, Amy—and have you come to me at last? I’ve wanted you
so long—so long! And you are still true to me? Say that you are, Amy. For
I dreamed—or did someone tell me?—that you were false—false!”
La Violette started back as if someone had dealt her a sharp blow. She
glanced apprehensively toward Bradford’s couch; but he appeared to
be sleeping. Her beautiful face was colorless; her violet eyes were
swimming with tears. Bending over her charge, she whispered faintly:
“Who is Amy?”
“Amy, Amy,” Douglas repeated, parrot-like.
“It is not Amy,” she murmured tenderly—lovingly. “It is I—La Violette;
and I love you!”
“Ah!” the delirious man ejaculated, and opened his eyes very wide.
She started back. She feared—yet hoped—he had recognized her, understood
her meaning. His next words undeceived her, however.
“You—you cannot fool me,” he mumbled huskily. “You are Amy. I—I love you,
Amy——”
And then he closed his eyes and lay quiet, the movement of his parched
lips alone telling that he was communing with the phantoms that beset his
feverish brain.
La Violette bowed her golden head and wept convulsively. Duke thrust his
cold muzzle against her hand, in token of sympathy. Impulsively the girl
threw her arms around the animal’s neck, and hugged him. Then she again
hid her face and gave way to her acute grief. Already she was beginning
to taste the bitter dregs in the bottom of the cup of love.
Bradford arose, and, lightly moving to her side, laid his hand upon her
shoulder. She sprang to her feet, an exclamation of alarm upon her lips.
When she saw who it was that confronted her, she proudly threw back her
head—her eyes alight with anger. Tossing aside her disheveled hair, she
cried scornfully:
“Hiram Bradford, you have been spying upon me.”
“I was awake,” he returned quietly. “I saw all. You love him.”
Her face grew crimson—then paled.
“And if I _do_?” she said defiantly.
“Nothing,” he answered, his husky voice huskier than usual. “I’m glad you
_do_ love him. And—if he live—he shall be yours. You were made for each
other.”
“Do—do you think he is—is going to die?” she asked falteringly.
“No; we two will save him. He’ll learn to love you—the lesson will not be
a hard one.”
“But——” and she hesitated.
“Well?”
“He loves another.”
“How do you know that?”
“I had it from his own lips.”
Bradford playfully patted her cheek—which caused Duke to growl
menacingly—as he replied:
“Pshaw, little one! You must give no heed to the vaporings of a delirious
brain. Wait until he’s himself. You’ll see how easily you can win his
love. He babbled of you when I was bringing him here.”
“Did he?” And a glad light sprang into her eyes.
“Yes. Leave everything to me. I’ve been your friend in the past; I’m your
friend now. And both of us are _his_ friends. Now go for a walk in the
open air—and get some color into your cheeks.”
The days and weeks dragged drearily. Ross Douglas did not arise from
the depths of fever and delirium, into which his wound had plunged him.
Daily he grew weaker and thinner. In spite of the unremitting care of his
nurses, he seemed slowly but surely drifting toward the shores of the
unknown. November passed; December came—and Christmas was drawing near.
And still the hosts of death laid siege to the citadel of his life.
In the meantime, disaffection again arose in the ranks of the Prophet’s
followers. The winter was severe; and food was scarce. Many of the
Indians drifted away from the Mississinewa, in search of game, or
returned to their old homes. Tecumseh sat in his cabin, moodily pondering
over the condition of affairs. Yet had it not been for his presence, his
and his brother’s followers would have deserted, to a man. As it was,
only the Miamis and a faithful few of the various tribes remained. In the
latter part of November, Tenskwatawa sent messengers to Fort Harrison,
to ask for a share of the annuities that were being distributed to the
peaceable savages. These messengers succeeded in deceiving the agent at
the post, and returned to Mississinewa with a large amount of provisions
and other stores.
About this time, also, the English—learning of the Prophet’s defeat and
misfortunes—sent him a supply of arms, ammunition, blankets, and cooking
utensils. Bradford distributed these goods impartially.
Toward the last of December, the weather suddenly grew warmer and game
again appeared in the vicinity of the village. Despondency and gloom gave
way to feasting and rejoicing.
One morning, a few days before Christmas, La Violette sat by Douglas’s
couch. Bradford had been up all night. Now he lay sleeping the sleep
of utter nervous exhaustion. The fire in the middle of the room burned
dimly—casting angular shadows upon the rough log walls. Outside the rain
fell drearily. The earth was water-soaked; the air, fog-laden and chilly.
Nothing broke the stillness of the room, but the muffled, sullen rush of
the distant stream and the low, incoherent mutterings of the restless
patient. Uneasily he moved his head from side to side, and aimlessly
picked at imaginary objects in the air. He was the shadow of his
magnificent self. His hollow, burning eyes were wide open and staring;
his parched lips, drawn apart. No color was in his face, except the
hectic spots upon his sunken cheeks.
La Violette was pale and worn. As she looked upon the wreck of virile
manhood before her, she sighed deeply, and despondently shook her head.
Even as she looked upon the sick man, an abrupt change came over him. His
lips ceased to move—and gradually turned blue; his teeth set themselves
with a sharp click. The hectic spots upon his cheeks faded, leaving his
face of marble whiteness; and an icy sweat bathed his brow and temples.
A rigor shook his emaciated form from head to foot; his breathing became
irregular.
La Violette caught his hand in hers, and found it cold and clammy.
Springing to her feet, she ran to Bradford and aroused him. He was wide
awake in an instant.
“What’s the matter?” he inquired anxiously.
“_He—is—dying!_”
The words fell like leaden balls. Bradford felt each of them strike his
heart. The girl’s face wore a horrified expression. Without waiting
to hear more, Bradford ran to his patient’s bedside. After a hurried
examination he announced:
“The crisis has arrived! He’s not dying—we can yet save him. Don’t get
excited—don’t lose your head. Roll that hot stone in a blanket, and place
it to his feet. That’s right—you’re as steady as a clock. Heat another
blanket to wrap around him. Have no fear—we shall save him. Now get me
the flask of brandy and the small white powders that are in the pocket of
my hunting-shirt. What a brave little woman you are!”
Her hands were shaking like aspen leaves; but she obeyed his orders. When
the medicines were in his possession, Bradford poured out a quantity
of the fiery liquid and dropped into it the white powder. Then quickly
mixing the two, he forcibly poured the whole down the dying man’s throat.
Silently he watched for the effects of the powerful draught. They
were not long in showing themselves. The rigor passed; and a warm glow
suffused the patient’s neck and face, and rose to his temples. Pulse and
respiration gradually grew steadier—stronger; and feet and hands regained
their accustomed warmth. A natural moisture overspread the body. And the
sick man sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.
For an hour the two nurses sat by Ross’s side—neither speaking a word. At
last Bradford yawned and remarked:
“He’s all right now, little girl. The worst is over. I’m going to finish
my nap. Don’t disturb him—let him sleep as long as he will. When he
awakes he’ll be conscious. Call me, if he rouses before I do. Be brave a
little longer; and all will be well.”
For hours the two men slept. La Violette scarcely dared to breathe, for
fear of waking her charge. Noon came. Bradford arose, and, approaching
the couch, closely inspected the sleeper.
“He’s doing nicely,” he said. Then noting La Violette’s pallid face:
“Come—you must get out of here. I don’t care to take charge of another
patient just now. I never did like the practice of the profession. Take a
turn in the open air—and get something to eat while you’re gone.”
But she resolutely shook her head, as she replied:
“I will stay by him until he awakes. You go—you need air and exercise
more than I.”
“You’ll go when I return?” he asked.
“If he be awake—yes.”
Bradford smiled to himself, as he passed through the door, murmuring:
“I know your desire, my sweet maid. You want your face to be the first
he shall see when he regains consciousness—your voice to be the first
he shall hear. Ah! Love may make cowards of men; but it makes angels of
women.”
After Bradford left the cabin, La Violette kneeled upon the bare ground
at the sleeping man’s side and gazed long and earnestly into his face,
moving her lips as though in prayer. Then she timidly took his thin
hand between her soft palms and kissed it gently—reverently, again
and again. At last he stirred and opened his eyes. The blank stare of
delirium was gone; there was intelligence in the look he fastened upon
her. Embarrassed, she dropped his hand and drew herself erect, her face
aflame. His lips moved; and she caught the faint whisper:
“La Violette.”
She nodded, but placed her finger upon her lips, in token of silence.
“Where am I?” he persisted.
“With friends,” she answered feelingly. “But you are very weak; you must
not talk.”
Unheeding her words, he went on in a feeble, whispering tone:
“I’m so helpless. Have I been very ill?”
“Yes; you have been very ill. Please do not try to talk; the effort will
hurt you.”
Leaving his side, she brought a cup of gruel from the fire—where it had
been warming upon the coals—and insisted that he drink it. Like a fretful
child, he pushed it aside and whimpered:
“Answer my questions—answer my questions!”
Seeing that he was growing excited, she said soothingly:
“Drink this for me, and I will answer your questions. Take it all—that’s
right. Now, what do you want to know?”
“Where am I—at Wildcat Creek?”
“No; you are at the village of the Miamis, upon the Mississinewa.”
“Who brought me here?”
“Hiram Bradford.”
“Bradford? Ah, yes! I remember now. I was wounded by the Winnebagoes.
My companions left me, thinking I was dead. How long have I been
here—several days?”
“Several weeks.”
“So long! Who has taken care of—of—me?”
He was panting for breath. Noting which, she answered kindly but firmly:
“Bradford has taken care of you. But you must talk no more—you are too
weak. Close your eyes and try to sleep.”
“And you have—helped to nurse—me,” he went on brokenly. “I know—you
have. I was dimly—dimly conscious of your presence. But I thought you
were—were——”
“You must talk no more,” she sternly interrupted. “If you do not obey
me, I will leave you here alone.”
A feeble, flickering smile for one brief moment illuminated his ghastly
features. Then it was gone, and he murmured faintly:
“No, don’t leave me. I’ll obey you.”
And obediently he closed his eyes, and was soon fast asleep.
A few minutes later Bradford returned.
“Still sleeping?” he inquired softly, gazing into the upturned face.
“He has been awake,” La Violette answered quietly.
“Ah! And he recognized you?”
She nodded.
“Did he ask you any questions?”
“He wanted to know where he was, who had brought him here, and who nursed
him.”
“You answered his questions?”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“I gave him some gruel and commanded him to go to sleep.”
“And he obeyed you. I couldn’t have done better myself. Now you must
keep the promise you made me. Take a short walk; then eat something and
seek the rest you so much need. I don’t want to see you back here until
to-morrow morning. Come—you must do as I say.”
Listlessly, pathetically, La Violette left the cabin; and Bradford took
her place by Douglas’s couch.
Ross improved very slowly. It was the first of February before he could
totter across the room and take a peep at the outer world. He was greatly
reduced in flesh and strength; he was nervous and irritable. His muscles
were soft, his buoyant disposition was gone, and his mind seemed feeble
and apathetic. Bradford and La Violette did all they could to cheer and
encourage him—but in vain. Like a water-logged vessel, he drifted this
way and that in the eddy of conflicting emotions—and made little progress
toward the haven of health.
Out of patience, at last, Bradford said to him:
“Look here, young man! Do you want to get well? If you do, you’ve got to
rouse yourself. Shake off your lethargy and be a man. You’re acting the
baby. I’m ashamed of you.”
Ross proudly straightened his thin form. His nostrils dilated and
quivered. Something like his old self-reliance flashed in his hollow
eyes, as he cried in piping tones:
“Hiram Bradford, you’re very brave now; you insult a man who is too
weak to give you the drubbing your words merit. You’ve forgotten that I
defeated you in a fair contest of strength and skill—when I was myself.
Yes, I _will_ rouse myself; I will try to recover my health—if for no
other purpose than to make you eat your words!”
A spasm of pain contorted Bradford’s scarred face. But quickly recovering
his equanimity, he chuckled huskily:
“That’s it—get angry at me. I thought I could stir you. You feel better
already, don’t you?”
Douglas earnestly scanned the speaker’s face for a full minute. Bradford
burst out laughing. With a sheepish grin, the younger man said:
“I understand you now. Your words and actions are a part of your plan of
treatment, eh? Well, I’ll shake off my lethargy—if I can. I’ll be a man,
and strive to recover my health and strength. I _am_ ashamed of myself.
Please forgive my childish petulance. Here is my hand.”
The two shook hands, silently—solemnly. Then Douglas continued:
“Twice you have saved my life, Bradford. I am grateful—I don’t hate you
as I did. I may as well confess that I rather like you—that I feel you
are my friend. I want to thank you for your unremitting and tender care.
Yet I cannot understand why you keep me a prisoner. And here I give you
fair warning: As soon as I’m able, I’ll again try to escape.”
A smile almost beatific lighted the elder man’s marred visage, as he
replied feelingly:
“I _am_ your friend; and I am delighted to know you begin to realize it.
Please say again that you don’t hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” Ross said quietly.
“And you wouldn’t harm me, if you could?”
“No—unless——”
“Unless what?”
“Unless you should offer injury to me or some one dear to me.”
“Which I’ll never do,” Bradford answered earnestly. “Now we understand
each other. You’re to try to get well; I’m to help you. You’re going to
try to escape; I’m going to try to prevent you from succeeding. Have I
stated the case correctly?”
“Yes,” Douglas returned smilingly.
“Very well. Now you’d better lie down and take a nap. You’re tired.”
From that day, Ross began to improve more rapidly. His cough gradually
subsided; his appetite grew better. He commenced to regain strength and
flesh. But the lancinating pain was still in his chest; and it took but
little exercise or excitement to exhaust him. Then, too, his mind was
perturbed. The stronger he grew, the more he chafed under the yoke of
captivity. He worried about Amy. He thought of her by day, and dreamed
of her by night. Was she alive—was she well? Was she grieving over his
supposed death, or was she wholly unaware of the misfortunes that had
befallen him?
“If I only knew!” he would groan in his anguish. “Did Bright Wing and Joe
escape and return to Franklinton? If they did, have they told all they
knew? And, thinking me dead, she may have married George Hilliard!”
Then, in his excitement, he would stride up and down the room, until he
was in a state of nervous collapse and compelled to seek his bed, to lie
fretting and planning until sleep came to his relief.
Bradford noticed that his patient was always worse after being left to
himself for a short time, and shrewdly suspected the cause. He spoke to
La Violette about the matter; and they decided that one or the other of
them would be with Ross constantly.
As spring approached, the weather grew milder. On fine, warm days,
Douglas and Duke—always accompanied by Bradford or La Violette—took short
strolls through the village. But on wet, cold days, he was compelled
to crouch by the fire in his miserable cabin, a prey to his own gloomy
thoughts. It was on such occasions that La Violette came as a ministering
angel to cheer and comfort him. She talked to him, sang to him, read to
him—her heart upon her sleeve, her soul in her beautiful eyes. But he
was blind—he saw nothing. To him she was a fair, lovable child—unused
to the ways of the world. She talked to him; he heard only her words,
and gave no heed to the tender inflection of her voice. She sang quaint
little love ballads to him; he closed his eyes and listened dreamily to
her bird-like notes—scarcely noticing the sentiment of the song. She read
to him from two or three old French books, tales of love and chivalry;
but he took the stories for what they were worth—and lost sight of the
reader. He noticed her marked preference for his society; but thought
only that she desired to amuse him—to be amused herself. He looked upon
her and pronounced her very beautiful; he thoroughly enjoyed her society.
He was interested in her, and wondered who and what she was. He respected
her, pitied her, felt grateful for what she had done for him. He would
have fought for her—died for her. But did he love her—did she love him?
He never asked himself the questions. Perhaps he did not dare to do
so—perhaps he was willfully blind. At any rate, he was true as steel to
Amy Larkin.
One day when La Violette had been reading to him for some time, she
stopped suddenly and, closing her book, remarked naïvely:
“You are not interested in what I have been reading. Do you want me to
sing to you, or talk to you?”
“Talk to me, please.”
“Of what or whom?”
“Of yourself.”
“Of myself?”—in pleased surprise. It was the first time he had manifested
so great an interest in her.
“Yes, of yourself,” he repeated.
“But there is so little to tell,” she objected.
“There is much I’d like to know,” he said earnestly. “May I ask you some
pointed questions?”
He lay upon a fur rug at her feet. As he turned to look at her, their
eyes met. He unflinchingly met her ardent gaze; she dropped her white
lids and blushed. Then recovering herself she answered composedly:
“You may ask me any questions you choose.”
“And will you answer them?”
“I will.”
For the moment he was disconcerted. He had expected her to refuse his
request. However, he said:
“How long have you been among the Indians?”
“Among the Indians?”—in well-feigned surprise.—“I _am_ an Indian.”
Her eyes were dancing mischievously.
“You are not a _savage_,” he replied coldly. “You can’t deceive me.”
“I am not a savage—but I am an Indian, surely. Tenskwatawa is my father.”
And she laughed merrily.
“Why do you tell me that? Do you expect me to believe so palpable a
falsehood?”
Instantly her mood changed. Her lips trembled and unshed tears stood in
her eyes, as she answered sadly:
“Because it is all I know to tell. My earliest recollection is of playing
among the children of the Shawnees. Tenskwatawa was pointed out to me as
my father. From that day until I was ten years old—as nearly as I know my
age—I was under his charge. During all that time the aged Indian woman,
who is my attendant now, ministered to my childish needs and wants—was
all the mother I ever knew. At the age of ten I was an uncouth little
savage. I went with the tribe from one camp to another. I knew no other
life—I cared for naught but the companionship of my savage friends——”
“How similar to my own experience!” he muttered.
“What did you say?” she asked quickly.
“Pardon my interruption,” he replied. “Please go on with your story.”
“When I was ten years old, we were encamped upon the Maumee. There
it was that I first saw Hiram Bradford—so far as I know. It was in
the autumn when he came among us. He appeared to have great influence
with my father, Tenskwatawa. One day I overheard the two talking—or
quarreling, rather. Both were very angry. I heard my name mentioned;
and with childish intuition I knew that some calamity threatened me. I
ran and hid; but shortly my father found me, and told me I was to leave
the tribe and accompany Scar Face—that is the name Bradford bears among
the Indians. I remember I cried bitterly and clung to Crane Bill, my
nurse. But Bradford took me in his arms and bore me away. He took me to
Quebec and placed me in charge of some French women, who taught a mission
school. There I remained six years—and there I received the little
education I possess. Two years ago he took me from my good friends—whom I
had learned to love dearly—and brought me back to the tribe.”
She stopped abruptly, her breast heaving.
“Go on,” Ross said gently.
“There is no more to tell,” was the half-whispered reply.
“That’s all you know of yourself?”
“It is”—nodding.
“Do you know anything of Bradford’s history?”
“Nothing.”
“You are eighteen years old?”
“As nearly as I know.”
“And you know nothing of your people?”
“You are among them.”
“You mean these dirty, idle savages?”
“Yes. They are all the friends I have ever known, except Bradford, the
teachers and pupils at the mission school—and yourself.”
“You haven’t the faintest recollection of your parents—your childhood
home?” he persisted.
“Sometimes,” she answered chokingly, “I dream of lying as a babe in the
arms of a fair-haired, blue-eyed woman, and seeing her smile down at me.
But that is all—it is but a dream.”
“Has Tenskwatawa always been kind to you?”
“Kind and deferential.”
“But you know—you feel—that he isn’t your father?”
For a few seconds she was silent. Then she said:
“The tribe believes he is my father—that I am a gift from the Great
Spirit. Crane Bill, my old nurse, told me one time that Tenskwatawa found
me in the forest, where the Great Spirit had placed me. That is all I
know.”
“Have you never questioned Tenskwatawa?”
“I have.”
“What did he say?”
“He said that what the tribe believes is true—and would say no more.”
“And Bradford?”
“He patted my cheek and told me to be patient—that one day I should know
all.”
“Nothing more?”
She shook her head.
“He has always treated you kindly—respectfully?”
“Always.”
“And you like him?”
“I do.”
“Better than you like me?”
He asked the question innocently—playfully, as he would have put it to a
child, expecting her to answer in the same spirit. But she did nothing of
the kind. Instead, she placed her hand upon his and began passionately:
“Fleet Foot, you will never know——”
Then she suddenly checked herself, and, hiding her face, burst into tears.
Douglas was surprised—horrified. For the first time, he had an inkling
of the truth. He did not know what to do—what to say. Her disheveled,
red-gold hair, her beaded dress of bright-colored cloth, her slender form
shaking with sobs—all gave her the appearance of a grieved child. The
temptation assailed him to take her in his arms, kiss away her tears,
and tell her he loved her. But Amy Larkin’s face arose before him; and
condemning himself for a weakling, he set his teeth and regained control
of himself. When he felt equal to the task, he gently but firmly removed
her hands from her face and said:
“There—you mustn’t cry anymore. I don’t doubt your friendship.”—He
accented the word.—“You’ve been very kind to me; and I appreciate all you
have done. Now, if you’ll listen, I’ll tell you the story of my life, in
return for what you have told me of yours. Are you ready to hear me?”
“Yes,” she answered in an almost inaudible tone, as she dried her eyes
and sought to compose her features.
Unheeding her evident embarrassment, and the dry sobs that at intervals
shook her willowy form, he proceeded to tell her of himself. She listened
with rapt attention. When he had finished his narrative, he said:
“You see, La Violette, there is great similarity in our experiences.”
“Yes,” she murmured softly.
“The knowledge should make us closer friends.”
He laid stress upon the word friends.
“I cannot be a better friend to you than I have been—than I have tried to
be, at least,” she replied tremulously.
Then she arose and darted from the room.
When he had recovered from the surprise her sudden departure had caused
him, he muttered gloomily:
“Am I an egotistical fool, or has she—untutored in the ways of the
world—shown me her woman’s heart? I pity her—her lot is a sad one. Who is
she? No matter; I mustn’t wrong her. She’s innocence itself. A child—a
mere child! Yet a woman with a woman’s heart! She is beautiful—lovable.
A wild flower—a violet. A face and form to charm an artist! If it were
not for—Bah! Of what am I thinking? Oh, that I were my old self—that I
might escape from this hateful place and return to the little woman who
is grieving over my prolonged absence!”
Contracting his brows, he strode to the door and looked out at the
falling rain.
[Illustration]