It was his playhouse, after all, that she had kicked to
pieces. But he did not mention it--nor her attitude--nor did he
try, in any way, to arouse her memories of that other time at this
same place.
"I want to talk with you, June--and I want to talk now."
"Yes, Jack," she said tremulously.
For a moment he stood in silence, his face half-turned, his teeth
hard on his indrawn lip--thinking. There was nothing of the
mountaineer about him now. He was clean-shaven and dressed with
care--June saw that--but he looked quite old, his face seemed
harried with worries and ravaged by suffering, and June had
suddenly to swallow a quick surging of pity for him. He spoke
slowly and without looking at her:
"June, if it hadn't been for me, you would be over in Lonesome
Cove and happily married by this time, or at least contented with
your life, for you wouldn't have known any other."
"I don't know, Jack."
"I took you out--and it rests with you whether I shall be sorry I
did--sorry wholly on your account, I mean," he added hastily.
She knew what he meant and she said nothing--she only turned her
head away slightly, with her eyes upturned a little toward the
leaves that were shaking like her own heart.
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