"
"That accounts," he replied, musingly.
"For what?"
"Your--your improvement. You seem happy--and well."
"Do you mean the activity accounts for that--or my watching for
you?" she queried, archly. She was quick, bright, roguish. Neale had
no idea what qualities she might have possessed before that fateful
massacre, but she was bewilderingly different from the sick-minded
girl he had tried so hard to interest and draw out of her gloom. He
was so amazed, so delighted with her, and so confused with his own
peculiar state of mind, that he could not be natural. Then his mood
shifted and a little heat at his own stupidity aroused his wits.
"Allie, I want to realize what's happened," he said. "Let's sit down
here. We sat here once before, if you remember. Slingerland can wait
to see me."
Neale's horse grazed along the green border of the brook. The water
ran with low, swift rush; there were bees humming round the autumn
flowers and a fragrance of wood-smoke wafted down from the camp;
over all lay the dreaming quietness of the season and the wild.
Allie sat down upon the rock, but Neale, changing his mind, stood
beside her. Still he did not trust himself to face her. He was
unsettled, uncertain. All this was like a dream.
"So you watched for me?" he asked, gently.
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