So we went back the way we had come, and she pressed still closer to me as
we passed the little hollow in which the spring churned on, noiseless, and
ceaseless, and untiring, and seemed to look up at us with a knowing eye as
our lantern set the yellow gleams writhing and twisting in it. We watched
it for a time, it looked so like breaking into sound every next moment. But
no sound came, and we picked up our can and went on.

"I do wish I knew if it is to-day or to-morrow," said Carette.

"Without doubt it is to-day."

"I don't believe it, Phil. It's either to-morrow or the day after, or the
day after that."

"But that milk would never have kept sweet."

"It would keep sweet a very long time here. The air is so fresh and cool."

"Well, even if it's to-morrow it's still to-day," I argued.

"I know. But what I want to know is--how long we've been in here, and it
feels to me like days and days."

But it was impossible to say how long we had slept, and until we got some
outside light on the matter we could not decide it.

So we gathered our beds into cushions and sat there side by side, and since
our supply of candles was not a very large one, and I could feel her in the
dark quite as well as in the light, I lit my pipe and put the lantern out.