"Oh, Virginia--I love you, I love you."

XI

It was one of Bill Bronson's basic creeds to look his situations
squarely in the face. It was part of the training of the wilderness,
and up till now he had always abided by it. But for the past few days
he had found himself trying to look aside. He had tried to avoid and
deny a truth that ever grew clearer and more manifest,--his love for
Virginia.

He had told himself he wouldn't give his love to her. He would hold
back, at least. He had reminded himself of the bridgeless gap that
separated them, that they were of different spheres and that it only
meant tragedy, stark and deep, for him to let himself go. He had fought
with himself, had tried to shut his eyes to her beauty and his heart to
her appeal. But there was no use of trying further. In the stress and
passion of the melody he had found out the truth.

And this was no moment's passion,--the love that he had for her. Bill
was not given to fluency of emotion. He was a northern man, intense as
fire but slow to emotional response. He had known the great discipline
of the forest; he was not one to lose himself in infatuation or
sentimentality. He only knew that he loved her, and no event of life
could make him change.

He had had dreams, this man; but they were never so concrete, so fond as
these dreams that swept him now. In the soft candlelight the girl's
beauty moved him and glorified him, the very fact of her presence
thrilled him to the depths, the wistfulness and appeal in her face
seemed to burn him like fire. This northern land was never the home of
weak or half-felt emotions. The fine shades and subtle gradations of
feelings were unknown to the northern people, but they had full
knowledge of the primordial passions. They could hate as the she-wolf
hates the foe that menaces her cubs, and they could love to the moment
of death. He knew that whatever fate life had in store for him it could
not change his attitude toward her. She would leave the North and go
back to her own people, and still he would be true.

Even in the first instant he knew enough not to hope. They would have
their northern adventure together, and then she would leave him to his
snows and his trackless forests. She would go to her own land, a place
of mirth and joy and warmth, to leave him brooding and silent in his
waste places. He knew that all his days this same dream would be before
his eyes, this wistful-eyed,