The cabin door stood wide.
A brief panic seized her. She felt a sudden shrinking, a wild desire
for headlong flight. But it passed. She knew that for good or ill she
would never turn back. And so, with her heart thumping tremendously
and a tentative smile curving her lips, she ran lightly across to the
open door.
On the soft turf her footsteps gave forth no sound. She gained the
doorway as silently as a shadow. Roaring Bill faced the end of the
long room, but he did not see her, for he was slumped in the big chair
before the fireplace, his chin sunk on his breast, staring straight
ahead with absent eyes.
In all the days she had been with him she had never seen him look like
that. It had been his habit, his defense, to cover sadness with a
smile, to joke when he was hurt. That weary, hopeless expression, the
wry twist of his lips, wrung her heart and drew from her a yearning
little whisper:
"Bill!"
He came out of his chair like a panther. And when his eyes beheld her
in the doorway he stiffened in his tracks, staring, seeing, yet
reluctant to believe the evidence of his vision. His brows wrinkled.
He put up one hand and absently ran it over his cheek.
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