Then abruptly,
obviously, he changed the subject.
"You said you were going away," he recalled. "Is it to be a wedding
journey?"
"Yes," tensely.
"Tell me of it, please; I wish to hear."
"You would not be interested."
"Elizabeth--" syllabalised, reproachfully. "Am I not your cousin?"
No answer.
"Haven't you forgiven me yet?" The voice was very low. Its owner was
again very near.
"You'd laugh at me if I told you," repressedly. "You wouldn't
understand."
Slowly, meaningly, Clayton Craig drew away--resumed the former position;
the place from which, unobserved, he could himself watch.
"We're going away out there," complied the girl suddenly, reluctantly.
Her hand indicated the trackless waste to the right. "Just the two of us
are going: How and I. We'll take a pack horse and a tent and How's camp
kit and stay out there alone until winter comes." Against her will she
was warming to the subject, was unconsciously painting a picture to
please the solitary listener. "We'll have our ponies and ammunition and
plenty to read. The cowboys laugh at How because ordinarily he never
carries a gun; but he's a wonderful shot. We'll have game whenever we
want it. We'll camp when we please and move on when we please." Again
unconsciously she glanced at the listener to see the effect of her art.
"We'll be together, How and I, and free--free as sunshine. There'll be
nothing but winter, and that's a long way off, to bring us back.
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