"
"How absurd," she declared--and then, a little thoughtfully, "if I
thought that was really true, I should never wish to see again.
Curiously, the last two or three weeks this queer, blurred sort of
vision I have seems quite sufficient. I haven't wanted to see half so
badly as I've wanted you. I can get impressions enough through the
other four senses. I'd hate awfully to have to get along without you.
You've become almost a part of me--I wonder if you understand that?"
Hollister did understand. It was mutual,--that want, that dependence,
that sense of incompleteness which each felt without the other. It was
a blessed thing to have, something to be cherished, and he knew how
desperately he had reacted to everything that threatened its loss.
Hollister sat there looking up at the far places, the high, white
mountain crests, the deep gorges, the paths that the winter slides had
cut through the green forest, down which silvery cataracts poured now.
It seemed to have undergone some subtle change, to have become less
aloof, to have enveloped itself in a new and kindlier atmosphere.
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