conscious of the cold, impersonal arms of the
man beside her. As she thought of the difference she hated Lawrence
wildly. At least, her husband knew her worth. He knew her golden
treasure-house of love; he knew her as she was.

This blind man before her there, unkempt, hard, expressionless, what did
he know of her? What could he know, born of poor people, and working his
way among inferiors? She almost laughed aloud. Why, at home this man,
who had carried her in his arms, would have been one of her wards, an
object of her charities. But would he? Lawrence was an artist. She
considered that.

"Isn't it light enough to get moving, Claire?" His rich, warm tones
broke in upon her thought like a shattering cataract. How musical and
vibrant his voice was!

"I think so." She stood up unsteadily.

"Good. We'd better go down nearer the river. We will want a sheltered
ravine for our winter camp."

"Very well." She threw her arm over his shoulder. "It isn't far down,
and it's clear going. When we start again, I'll be able to walk. And
then I'll lead you, Mr. Lawrence." She spoke half in jest.

"And if we are alive, I shall make it possible for you to do so
comfortably. I hope for something to make shoes of." He answered with a
frank, sincere joy at her being able to walk, and she was ashamed of her
anger. He was not to blame for being anxious to have her well, to have
felt otherwise would certainly have been to be a fool indeed. She should
rejoice with him, for then they could get home that much sooner, home to
her husband and her old life. She warmed at the idea, and felt a sense
of gratitude toward Lawrence that was good and wholesome. "I have been
silly," she thought. "He is really not to be expected to fall and adore
me, and certainly I ought not to blame him for being blind. He couldn't
help that, either."

"Lawrence," she said aloud, "I am a beastly unjust wretch."

"I don't see it," he protested.

"But you ought to see it. I don't play fair with you."

"You said that once before, I believe. I don't agree any more now that I
did then."

"But I think all sorts of beastly things." She could not understand her
frankness.

"Oh"--he paused. "So do I. But as I am not a Puritan, I scarcely hold
myself responsible to you for my thoughts. One's thoughts are his own,
and, as long as he keeps them to himself, he is entitled to as many as
he pleases, of whatever variety he prefers."

"Do you think so?"

"Of course, a