From his pillow Peter Keith had seen the look of fear and the paleness of
her cheeks, but he was a long way from guessing the truth. Yet he thought
he knew. For days--yes, for weeks--there had been that growing fear in
her eyes. He had seen her mighty fight to hide it from him. And he
thought he understood.
"I know it has been a terrible winter for you, dear," he had said to her
many times. "But you mustn't worry so much about me. I'll be on my feet
again--soon." He had always emphasized that. "I'll be on my feet again
soon!"
Once, in the breaking terror of her heart, she had almost told him the
truth. Afterward she had thanked God for giving her the strength to keep
it back. It was day--for they spoke in terms of day and night--when
Rydal, half drunk, had dragged her into his cabin, and she had fought him
until her hair was down about her in tangled confusion--and she had told
Peter that it was the wind. After that, instead of evading him, she had
played Rydal with her wits, while praying to God for help. It was
impossible to tell Peter. He had aged steadily and terribly in the last
two weeks. His eyes were sunken into deep pits. His blond hair was
turning gray over the temples. His cheeks were hollowed, and there was a
different sort of luster in his eyes. He looked fifty instead of
thirty-five. Her heart bled in its agony. She loved Peter with a
wonderful love.
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