"Yes," said she, with a modest interrogation, as he hesitated, "what is it
you had hoped?"

"That I might indirectly be the means of making your life less lonely here.
You remember that 'experiment' we talked about at the spring?"

"That _you_ talked about, you mean."

"I am going to try it myself. Not because you were so
encouraging,--but--it's a risk anyway, you know, and I'm not sure the
circumstances make so much difference. I've known people to be wretched
with all the modern conveniences. I am going East for her in about two
weeks. How sorry she will be to find you gone! I wrote to her about you.
You might have helped each other; couldn't you stand it, Miss Newell, don't
you think, if you had another girl?"

"I'm afraid not," she said very gently. "I _must_ go home. You may be sure
she will not need me; you must see to it that she doesn't need--any one."

They were walking back and forth on the hill.

"I was just looking for the cottonwood-trees; are they gone too?" she
asked.

"Oh yes; there isn't a tree left in the canon. Don't you envy me my work?"

"I suppose everything we do seems like desecration to somebody. Here am I
making history very rapidly for this colony of ants." She looked down with
a rueful smile as she spoke.