l, not hers; therefore she would not try by the
least suggestion of manner, or even of thought, to know why, nor would
she admit to her own spirit the hurt of it. The walled inclosure of
his heart was his, and she must remain without. To have attempted by
any art to get within the boundaries he had set she felt to be
unmaidenly.

In spite of his strength and vigor, Harry was very weary. But less
from his long night's vigil than from the emotions that had torn him
and left his heart heavy with the necessity of covering always this
strong, elemental love that smoldered, waiting in abeyance until it
might leap into consuming flame.

During the breakfast Harry sat silent, while the two women talked a
little with each other, speculating as to the weather, and rejoicing
that the morning was again clear. Then while her mother was occupied,
Amalia, unnoticed, gave him the broth to carry up to the shed, and
there, as Larry still slept, he set it near the fire that it might be
warm and ready for him should he wake during their absence. At the
cabin he brought wood and laid it beside the hearth, and looked about
to see if there were anything more he could do before he spoke.

"Madam Manovska, Amalia and I are going up the trail a little way, and
we may be gone some time, but--I'll take good care of her." He smiled
reassuringly: "We mustn't waste the sunny days. When Mr. Kildene
returns, you also must ride sometimes."

"Ah, yes. When? When? It is long--very long."

"But, maybe, not so long, mamma. Soon now must he come. I think it."

They left her standing in the door as they went off up the trail, the
glistening snow making the world so dazzling in the sunlight, so
blinding to her eyes, used to the obscurity of the cabin, that the
many tracks past the door were unnoticed by her. In silence they
walked until they had almost reached the turn, when Amalia spoke.

"Have you look, how I use but the one crutch, 'Arry King? Soon will I
again walk on my foot, very well. I have so many times to thank you.
Now of mamma we must speak. She thinks only, every day, every hour, of
my father. If we shall speak the truth to her--I do not know. What she
will do--we cannot tell. No. And it is well to keep her heart from too
much sorrow. For Sir Kildene, he must not be afflicted by us--my mamma
and I. We have take from him his house, and he is banish--all for us,
to make pleasant, and what we can do is little, so little--and if my
mamma sit a