And then it passed, the mood—and she tried to think more calmly, still answering him as he called from the woods. She had seen a great deal of Thornton lately—a great deal. He had been kind and thoughtful and considerate—nothing more. More! What more could there have been? Love! There was something of mockery in that, wasn't there? Everything she thought about lately, every way her mind turned seemed to hold something of mockery now. Of course, Mrs. Thornton's words expressing the wish that she and Thornton might come together had been often enough with her—mockingly again!—but Thornton could have known nothing of that—so, after all, what did that matter? She had snatched at every opportunity to motor with Thornton despite Doc's protests, protests that had grown sullen and angry of late—snatched at the opportunities eagerly, as she would snatch at a breath of air where all else stifled her—snatched at them because they took her out of herself temporarily, away from everything, where everything at times seemed to be driving her mad. Hate Thornton! No, of course, she didn't hate him—she had thought that a moment ago because—because her brain was—was—oh, she didn't know—so tired and weary, and she was cold now and quite wet. She didn't hate him, she even—
"All ready now—house to let furnished"—he was calling out, laughing as he came thrashing through the undergrowth—"excellent situation, high altitude, luxuriant pine grove surrounds the
