"It was I who made the mistake," she said. "I—Anything that menaced my forest menaced me. I couldn't see—beyond that pine."
They were outside, the girl on the bottom step. He was going out of her life because once she had driven him away unjustly. She looked up at the pine trees which seemed so inconsequential now, to have so little meaning. He was denying what she had said, he was humbling himself to make her suffering easy.
His hand was outstretched and she looked at it vaguely and placed hers in it.
"Good-bye," he said. "Good-bye and good luck."
She could not speak. It was an affront to beg forgiveness; she had done the unpardonable; what she had today he had given her; what he was taking out of her life—she was to blame for that.
"Good-bye," she said.
She could not see his face twitch as he turned away. She stood looking after him, holding her hand outstretched as he had released it.
Pauguk at the end of her chain whined and bared her fangs.
Helen turned into the house. It seemed that there was no warmth in her body—
Milt Goddard, working on the motor of her car, watched. He was at a distance, could not hear their words, but he could see their faces and their postures. That was farewell to them, but the big woodsman knew that it was no farewell. He saw that the impulse which could never be shattered so long as life endures was in their hearts. He knew that though John Taylor was disappearing down the trail that skirted the fringe of swamp and made a
