He lifted his head at a distant call, a high, clear, sweet
"Oh-_hoo-oo-oo_" repeated twice. That was Doris calling him as she
always called him, if she wanted him and thought he was within range
of her voice. Well, he would go down presently.
He looked up the hill. He could see through a fringe of green timber
to a place where the leaves and foliage were all rusty-red from the
scorching of the fire. Past that opened the burned ground,--charred,
black, desolate. Presently life would be like that to him; all the
years that stretched ahead of him might be as barren as that black
waste.
His mind projected itself into the future from every possible angle.
He did not belittle Doris' love, her sympathy, her understanding. He
even conceded that no matter how his disfigurement affected her, she
would try to put that behind her, she would make an effort to cling to
him. And Hollister could see the deadly impact of his grotesque
features upon her delicate sensibility, day after day, month after
month, until she could no longer endure it, or him.
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