THE ACCIDENT
the sound of her breath coming almost in sobs; then she asked in sudden wonderment,
"Are—are you going to walk—all the way?"
"Certainly."
Again I could plainly distinguish the sob of her rapid breathing.
"I—I thank you."
That was all, yet I cannot fitly express the comfort, the encouragement, these few falteringly spoken words brought to me. They were so unexpected, so significant of the final awakening of her more womanly nature, as to yield me instantly a fresh vision of the girl. She had recognized kindness, even in an enemy, and had proven fair-minded enough to respond generously. Whatever might occur between us hereafter, she would never be able to remember me as before. I had been considerate to her, and she had openly acknowledged the consideration, yet I retained sufficient good sense to remain quiet: to push on silently through the black night, the roan plodding steadily at my heels. I did not even flatter myself that this slight outburst of gratitude would long endure. The old, disquieting thoughts would certainly soon recur to her mind-the memory of my treachery, my intentions, and, worse than all, my unfortunate relationship with her. Yet I had enjoyed that one glimpse into the deeps of her better nature, and remained content. She was certainly not one to brood over wrongs, to fan hatred, to refuse forgiveness; I even wondered vaguely if she were not secretly glad to be saved from Calvert Dunn, even at so great a cost.
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