“It is no wonder, with all these things troubling him, that he has changed so much since I came. He is as scrupulously neat as ever, and he makes this poor little hut shine, but he has changed remarkably since I came. It has been so gradual that I didn’t observe it until my blindness was no longer sufficient to keep me from seeing it. He was slender and evidently not strong when I came, but he has become a shadow, and his gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes are distressing to me. When he comes in now from fighting the snow,--for we must not be buried by it, and must have light and air, and the top of the chimney must be kept clear,--his weakness and exhaustion, though he tries so hard to conceal them, are terrible to see. “And now a great fear has come to me. It is that at any moment he may break down and die. I wish I had not written that, I wish I had never thought of it. Oh, if my father would only come! What can be keeping him? Do I not know that he loves me better than anything else in the world? Am I not all that he has to love and cling to? I cannot, cannot, understand it. Dr. Malbone says it is unreasonable for me to expect my father, and that if he should make the effort to reach me now it would be at too great a risk to his own life. He tries to assure me that my father will be governed entirely by the advice of the people who know the mountains, and that they will restrain him from making any such attempt, as they would not dare to make it themselves. All that may be true, but it is difficult for me to believe it. If I could only get a word from him, it would give me greater strength to bear the horrors of my situation. But why should I complain, when Dr. Malbone bears it all so patiently, so sweetly, so cheerfully? “Still, that awful picture of murder comes between me and these pages unceasingly. I think I can understand now why men sometimes kill women. Why should men and women be so different? Why should it be impossible for them to comprehend each other? It was Murder that I saw standing before me--both the horrible picture of murder as he painted it, with me as the murderess--me as the murderess!--and Murder in the flesh as he stood ready to strangle me. Oh, the incredible ferocity of the man, the terrible, wild savagery of him, the awful dark and nether side of his strangely complex character! All along I had taken him for a pusillanimous milksop, a baby, an old woman, a weak nobody; and at once he dropped his outer shell and stood forth a Man,--terrible, savage, brutal, overwhelming, splendid, wonderful! What is my judgment worth after this? And I was so proud of my understanding of men!