"Where do you walk?" he asked.

"Just anywhere," was her reply. "Sometimes up the river, sometimes down,
sometimes miles away in the woods."

"Do you never take a gun with you?"

"Of course," she answered, nodding, as though he could see. "I get wild
pigeons and sometimes a wild duck or a prairie-hen."

"That's right," he remarked; "that's right."

"I don't believe in walking just for the sake of walking," she continued.
"It doesn't do you any good, but if you go for something and get it,
that's what puts the mind and the body right."

Suddenly his face grew grave. "Yes, that's it," he remarked.

"To go for something you want, a long way off. You don't feel the fag
when you're thinking of the thing at the end; but you've got to have the
thing at the end, to keep making for it, or there's no good going--none
at all. That's life; that's how it is. It's no good only walking--
you've got to walk somewhere. It's no good simply going--you've got to
go somewhere. You've got to fight for something. That's why, when they
take the something you fight for away--when they break you and cripple
you, and you can't go anywhere for what you want badly, life isn't worth
living."

An anxious look came into her face. This was the first time, since