He woke at dawn. The whippoorwills, the frogs and crickets, were silent,
and the sharp, sweet song of a mocking bird throbbed from a hedge. It was
dark in the valley, but, high above, the air was already brightening with
the sun; a symmetrical cloud caught the solar rays and flushed rosy
against silver space. The valley turned from indistinct blue to grey, to
sparkling green. The sun gilded the peaks of the western range, and
slipped slowly down, spilling into the depth. It was almost cold, the pump
handle, the rough sward, the foliage beyond, were drenched with white dew;
a damp, misty veil lifted from the surface of the stream.
Clare declared that she felt stronger; she dressed, insisted upon frying
his breakfast. "You ought to have somebody in," she asserted later. They
were on the shallow porch, waiting stiffly for the doctor. "But don't get
that eldest of your sister's; last time she wore my sateen waist and run
the colors."
Just as she was leaving he slipped twenty dollars into her hand. "Write
when you want more," he directed; "and I'll be down to see you ... yes,
often ... the stage." A leaden depression settled over him as the doctor's
carriage took her from sight. The house to which he turned was deserted,
lonely. He locked the door to her room.