“For the last time,” she pleaded, and to please her he did sit down, and every time she came to his side with something he bent to kiss the hand that served him. “You're nothing but a big, nice boy,” she said. Hale held out a lock of his hair near the temples and with one finger silently followed the track of wrinkles in his face. “It's premature,” she said, “and I love every one of them.” And she stooped to kiss him on the hair. “And those are nothing but troubles. I'm going to smooth every one of _them_ away.” “If they're troubles, they'll go--now,” said Hale. All the time they talked of what they would do with Lonesome Cove. “Even if we do go away, we'll come back once a year,” said Hale. “Yes,” nodded June, “once a year.” “I'll tear down those mining shacks, float them down the river and sell them as lumber.” “Yes.” “And I'll stock the river with bass again.” “Yes.” “And I'll plant young poplars to cover the sight of every bit of uptorn earth along the mountain there. I'll bury every bottle and tin can in the Cove. I'll take away every sign of civilization, every sign of the outside world.” “And leave old Mother Nature to cover up the scars,” said June. “So that Lonesome Cove will be just as it was.” “Just as it was in the beginning,” echoed June. “And shall be to the end,” said Hale. “And there will never be anybody here but you.” “And you,” said June. While she cleared the table and washed the dishes Hale fed the horses and cut more wood, and it was dusk when he came to the porch. Through the door he saw that she had made his bed in one corner. And through her door he saw one of the white things, that had lain untouched in her drawer, now stretched out on her bed. The stars were peeping through the blue spaces of a white-clouded sky and the moon would be coming by and by. In the garden the flowers were dim, quiet and restful. A kingfisher screamed from the river. An owl hooted in the woods and crickets chirped about them, but every passing sound seemed only to accentuate the stillness in which they were engulfed. Close together they sat on the old porch and she made him tell of everything that had happened since she left the mountains, and she told him of her flight from the mountains and her life in the West--of her father's death and the homesickness of the ones who still were there. [Illustration: She made him tell of everything, 0444] “Bub is a cowboy and wouldn't come back for the world, but I could never have been happy there,” she said, “even if it hadn't been for you--here.” “I'm just a plain civil engineer, now,” said Hale, “an engineer without even a job and--” his face darkened. “It's a shame, sweetheart, for you--” She put one hand over his lips and with the other turned his face so that she could look into his eyes. In the mood of bitterness, they did show worn, hollow and sad, and around them the wrinkles were deep.