"
"You mean--it will be winter."
"Yes. It is a long journey. And"--he was looking at her closely as he
spoke--"Peter God may not be there when I return. It is possible he may
have gone into another part of the wilderness."
He saw her quiver as she drew back.
"He has been there--for seven--years," she said, as if speaking to
herself. "He would not move--now!"
"No; I don't think he would move now."
His own voice was low, scarcely above a whisper, and she looked at him
quickly and strangely, a flush in her cheeks.
It was late when he bade her good-night. Again he felt the warm thrill of
her hand as it lay in his. The next afternoon he was to take her driving.
The days and weeks that followed these first meetings with Josephine
McCloud were weighted with many things for Philip. Neither she nor her
father enlightened him about Peter God. Several times he believed that
Josephine was on the point of confiding in him, but each time there came
that strange fear in her eyes, and she caught herself.
Philip did not urge. He asked no questions that might be embarrassing. He
knew, after the third week had passed, that Josephine could no longer be
unconscious of his love, even though the mystery of Peter God restrained
him from making a declaration of it. There was not a day in the week that
they did not see each other. They rode together. The three frequently
dined together.
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