CHAPTER XIII Before Henderson had come that night, Blossom had been trying to study, but the pages of her book had developed the trick of becoming blurred. Two faces persisted in rising before her imagination; one, the reproachful countenance of Bear Cat, whom she ought to love whole-heartedly; the other, that of Henderson, whom she told herself she admired only as she might admire the President of the United States or the man who had written the dictionary--with distant and respectful appreciation. "He says I'm all right," she mused, "but I reckon he _knows_ in his heart that I ain't good enough fer him--ner fer his folks." Tears sprang into her eyes at the confession, and her reasoning went upon the rocks of illogic. "In the first place," she irrelevantly argued, "I'm in love with Bear Cat--an' in the second to think about Mr. Henderson would be right smart like crying for the moon." Then Henderson had come; had come asking refuge from danger. He had declared his love with tumultuous force--and it seemed to Blossom that, after all, the moon was hers without crying for it. When she had fed him in silence, because of the possibility of lurking spies outside, they sat, unmindful of passing hours, before the roar of the stone hearth and as the man's arms held her close to him she let her long lashes droop over her eyes and surrendered her hair and lips to his kisses. They had no great need of words, but sometimes she raised her lids and gazed steadfastly into his face, and as the carmine flecks of the blaze lighted her cheeks, the eyes were wide and unmasked, with a full, yet proud, surrender. He thought that for this gift of flower-like beauty and love the abandonment of his stern opportunism was a cheap exchange. His eyes, too, were glowing with an ardent light and both were spared the irony of realization that afterward impulse must again yield to the censorship of colder considerations. There is nothing more real than an impossible dream--while it endures. Once the girl's glance fell on a home-made doll, with a coarse wig of horse-hair, propped on the mantel-shelf. It was one of those crude makeshifts which mountain children call poppets, as our great-grandfathers' great-grandmothers called them puppets. A shadow of self-accusing pain crossed Blossom's face. "Turney whittled that poppet fer me outen hickory wood when I was a jest a leetle gal," she whispered remorsefully, then added: "Turney 'lowed ter wed me some day." Henderson reassured her with irrefutable logic. "Turner wouldn't have you disobey your heart, Blossom. Only you must be sure what your heart commands." "I _am_ sure. I'm plumb dead-sartain sure!" she vehemently responded, though still in a suppressed voice. They sat before the fire, alertly wakeful, in the shadow of impending danger until the first pale hint of dawn. Then Blossom went out with water pails, ostensibly busied about her early tasks but really on a journey of investigation.