"An' now," Kerry went on, "I've been thinkin' about Katy a heap in the last
few days. I'm goin' home to her to-morry--home to Philadelphy--goin' with
empty hands. An' I'm a-goin' to say to her, 'Katy, would ye rather take me
jest as I am, out of a job'--fer that's what I'll be when I go
back,--'would ye rather take me so an' wait fer the little farm?' I guess
she'll do it; I guess she'll take me. I've got that love fer her that makes
me think she'll take me. Did ye ever love a woman like that?"--turning
suddenly to the silent figure on the other side of the fire. "Did ye ever
love one so that ye felt like ye could jest trust her, same as you could
trust yourself? It's a--it--well, it's a mighty comfortable thing."

The mountaineer stretched out his injured hand, and examined it for so long
a time without speaking that it seemed as though he would not answer at
all. The wound was healing admirably now; he had made shift to shoot, with
Kerry's shoulder for a rest, and their larder was stocked with game once
more. When he at last raised his head and looked across the fire, his black
eyes were such wells of misery as made the other catch his breath.

Upon the silence fell his big, serious voice, as solemn and sonorous as a
church-bell: "You ast me did I ever love an' trust a woman like that. I
did--an' she failed me. I ain't gwine to call you fool fer sich; you're a
town feller, Dan, with smart town ways; mebby your gal would stick to you,
even ef you was in trouble; but me--"

Kerry made an inarticulate murmur of sympathy.

The voice went on. "You say you're goin' home to her with jest your two
bare hands?" it inquired. "But why fer? You've found your man. What makes
you go back that-a-way?"