"Oh! Allie! Allie!" began Neale, in distress. Then he caught the
different quality in her voice. It carried feeling. She was thinking
again. He swore that he would overcome this malady of hers, and he
grew keen, subtle, on fire with his resolve. He watched her. He put
his hands on her shoulders and pulled her gently. She slid off the
pile of buffalo robes to her knees before him. Then she showed the
only hint of shyness he had ever noted in her. Perhaps it was fear.
At any rate, she half averted her face, so that her loosened hair
hid it.
"Allie! Allie! Listen! Have you nothing to LIVE for?" he asked.
"No."
"Why, yes, you have."
"What?"
"Why, I--The thing is--Allie--you have ME!" he said, a little
hoarsely. Then he laughed. How strange his laugh sounded! He would
always remember that rude room of logs and furs and the kneeling
girl in the dim light.
"YOU!"
"Yes, me," he replied, with a ring in his voice. Never before had
she put wonder in a word. He had struck the right chord at last. Now
it seemed that he held a live creature under his hands, as if the
deadness and the dread apathy had gone away forever with the
utterance of that one syllable. This was a big moment. If only he
could make up to her for what she had lost! He felt his throat
swell, and speech was difficult.
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