Helen followed him down the steps. Bryant's eyes followed, too, with a smile not untouched by sadness.
Sunday.
The children, one at either hand drew Grandpa Humpy away to inspect a nest of hatching chicks and John, beside Helen, strolled down the river to sit on the bank and finally stretch out beside her on the needles and stare up into the pine crowns and talk—rather constrainedly.
Last night he had intended to tell her of his father's plan; he had put it off because of lack of opportunity. This morning the flush of yesterday's victory died before other grave problems. She had troubles enough; tonight he would talk to Rowe. Tomorrow would do—and perhaps tonight's interview would yield the hope that this obstacle need not be faced—such was the easier way!
There was their moment of love making when half reclining on the sweet needles he held her close to him and felt her hand stroking his head and heard her say that she needed him, that big as the forest was in her reason for living it would be small, now, without this other thing which had come into her heart. He wanted to blurt out his story of yesterday, of how he had held Jim Harris and opened the way for Humphrey's strategy, but he was not given to boasting; he was reticent; better to wait with his tales of allegiance until he could be sure that his unthinking enthusiasm, his desire to help her, had not brought her face to face with an unbeatable enemy.
They went bade together, his elbow touching her side.
