But the future unknown called
alluringly to him. In his moments of leisure, by the camp-fire at
night, he reflected and dreamed and wondered. And these reflections
always turned finally to memory of Allie.
The girl he had saved seemed far away in mind as well as in
distance. He tried to call up her face--to see it in the ruddy
embers. But he could visualize only her eyes. They were
unforgettable--the somber, haunting shadows of thoughts of death.
Yet he remembered that once or twice they had changed, had become
wonderful, with promise of exceeding beauty.
It seemed incredible that he had pledged himself. But he had no
regrets. Time had not made any difference, only it had shown him
that his pity and tenderness were not love. Still there had been
another emotion connected with Allie--a strange thing too subtle and
brief for him to analyze; when away from her he lost it. Could that
have been love? He thought of the day she waded the brook, the feel
of her as he carried her in his arms; and of that last sight of her,
on her knees in the cabin, her face hidden, her slender form still
as a statue. His own heart was touched. Yet this was not love. It
was enough for Neale to feel that he had done what he would have
applauded in another man, that he seemed the better for his pledge,
that the next meeting with Allie was one he looked forward to with a
strange, new interest.
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