“You poor, brave little martyr!” whispered Kathleen, her violet eyes filled with sudden tears; “don’t you suppose I know what you are doing?  Don’t you suppose I watch and pray——­”

“Did you know I was really trying?” asked the girl, astonished—­“I mean before I told you?”

“Know it!  Angels above!  Of course I know it.  Don’t you suppose I’ve been watching you slowly winning back to your old dear self—­tired, weary-footed, desolate, almost hopeless, yet always surely finding your way back through the dreadful twilight to the dear, sweet, generous self that I know so well—­the straightforward, innocent, brave little self that grew at my knee!—­Geraldine—­Geraldine, my own dear child!”

“Hush—­I did not know you knew.  I am trying.  Once I failed.  That was not very long ago, either.  Oh, Kathleen, I am trying so hard, so hard!  And to-day has been a dreadful day for me.  That is why I went off by myself; I paddled until I was ready to drop into the lake; and the fright that the boar gave me almost ended me; but it could not end desire!...  So I took a rifle—­anything to interest me—­keep me on my feet and moving somewhere—­doing something—­anything—­anything, Kathleen—­until I can crush it out of me—­until there’s a chance that I can sleep——­”

“I know—­I know!  That is why I dared not remonstrate when I saw you drifting again toward your old affectionate relations with Scott.  I’m afraid of animals—­except what few Scott has persuaded me to tolerate—­butterflies and frogs and things.  But if anything on earth is going to interest you—­take your mind off yourself—­and bring you and Scott any nearer together, I shall not utter one word against it—­even when it puts you in physical danger and frightens me.  Do you understand?”

The girl nodded, turned and kissed her.  They were following a path made by game; Scott was out of sight ahead somewhere; they could hear his boots crashing through the underbrush.  After a while the sound died away in the forest.

“The main thing,” said Geraldine, “is to keep up my interest in the world.  I want to do things.  To sit idle is pure destruction to me.  I write to Duane every morning, I read, I do a dozen things that require my attention—­little duties that everybody has.  But I can’t continue to write to Duane all day.  I can’t read all day; duties are soon ended.  And, Kathleen, it’s the idle intervals I dread so—­the brooding, the memories, the waiting for events scheduled in domestic routine—­like dinner—­the—­the terrible waiting for sleep!  That is the worst.  I tell you, physical fatigue must help to save me—­must help my love for Duane, my love for you and Scott, my self-respect—­what is left of it.  This rifle”—­she held it out—­“would turn into a nuisance if I let it.  But I won’t; I can’t; I’ve got to use everything to help me.”

“You ride every day, don’t you?” ventured the other woman timidly.

“Before breakfast.  That helps.  I wish I had a vicious horse to break.  I wish there was rough water where canoes ought not to go!” she exclaimed fiercely.  “I need something of that sort.”