“You see only one side of it,” said Paul. Unspeakable thoughts had kept pace with his father's words. “Nothing that happens, happens through us--or to us--alone. There was a girl I knew, outside. She was as happy, when I knew her first, as you say my mother used to be. Then she met some one--a man--and the shadow of his life crossed hers. He would have wrapped her up in it and put out her sunshine if he had stayed in the same world. Now she can be herself again, after a while. It cannot take long to forget a person you have known only a little over a year.” The packer rose on one elbow. He reached across and shook his son. “Where is that girl? Answer me! Take your face out of your hands!” “At Bisuka Barracks. She is the commandant's daughter. I came out to marry her.” “What possessed ye not to tell me?” “Why should I tell you? We buried the wedding-day months back, in the snow.” “Boy, boy!” the packer groaned. “What difference can it make now?” “_All_ the difference--all the difference there is! I thought you were out here touring it with them fool boys and they were all the chance you had for help outside. You suppose her father is going to see her git left? _They_'ll get in here, if they have to crawl on their bellies or climb through the tree-limbs. They know how! And we've wasted the grub and talked like a couple of women!” “Oh, don't--don't torment me!” Paul groaned. “It was all over. Can't you leave the dead in peace!” “We are not the dead! I 'most wish we were. Boy, I've got a big word to say to you about that. Come closer!” The packer's speech hoarsened and failed. They could only hear each other breathe. Then it seemed to the packer that his was the only breath in the darkness. He listened. A faint cheer arose in the forest and a crashing of the dead underlimbs of the pines. He turned frantically upon his son, but no pledge could be extorted now. Paul's lips were closed. He had lost consciousness. XIV KIND INQUIRIES The colonel's drawing-room was as hot as usual the first hour after dinner, and as usual it was full of kindly participant neighbors who had dropped in to repeat their congratulations on the good news, now almost a week old. Mrs. Bogardus had not come down, and, though asked after by all, the talk was noticeably freer for her absence. Mrs. Creve, in response to a telegram from her brother, had arrived from Fort Sherman on the day before, prepared for anything, from frozen feet to a wedding. She had spent the afternoon in town doing errands for Moya, and being late for dinner had not changed her dress. There never was such a “natural” person as aunt Annie. At present she was addressing the company at large, as if they were all her promising children.