er staring eyes, and
confused by them.

"Hello! little girl, I've brought you some things," he said, and tried
to speak cheerfully.

"Oh--is--it you?" she said, brokenly.

"Yes, it's Neale. I hope you've not forgotten me."

There came a fleeting change over her, but not in her face, he thought,
because not a muscle moved, and the white stayed white. It must have
been in her eyes, though he could not certainly tell. He bent over to
untie the pack.

"I've brought you a lot of things," he said. "Hope you'll find them
useful. Here--"

She did not look at the open pack or pay any attention to him. The
drooping posture had been resumed, together with the somber staring at
the brook. Neale watched her in despair, and, watching, he divined that
only the most infinite patience and magnetism and power could bring her
out of her brooding long enough to give nature a chance. He recognized
how unequal he was to the task. But the impossible or the unattainable
had always roused Neale's spirit. Defeat angered him. This girl was
alive; she was not hurt physically; he believed she could be made to
forget that tragic night of blood and death. He set his teeth and swore
he would display the tact of a woman, the patience of a saint, the skill
of a physician, the love of a father--anything to hold back this girl
from the grave into which she was fading. Reaching out, he touched her.

"Can you understand me?" he asked.

"Yes," she murmured. Her voice was thin, far away, an evident effort.

"I saved your life."

"I wish you had let me die." Her reply was quick with feeling, and
it thrilled Neale because it was a proof that he could stimulate or
aggravate her mind.

"But I DID save you. Now you owe me something."

"What?"

"Why, gratitude--enough to want to live, to try to help yourself."

"No--no," she whispered, and relapsed into the somber apathy.

Neale could scarcely elicit another word from her; then by way of
change he held out different articles he had brought--scarfs, a shawl,
a mirror--and made her look at them. Her own face in the mirror did not
interest her. He tried to appeal to a girl's vanity. She had none.

"Your hair is all tangled," he said, bringing forth comb and brush.
"Here, smooth it out."

"No--no--no," she moaned.

"All right, I'll do it for you," he countered. Surprised at finding
her passive when he had expected resistance, he began to comb out the
tangled tresses. In his earnestness he did no