He could hear her moving about preparing
supper. As he watched she came to the well for water and before
she returned to the cabin she stood looking over the fields as if
trying to locate him. Dannie's blood ran hotly and his pulses
were leaping. "Go to her! Go to her now!" demanded passion,
struggling to break leash. "You killed Jimmy! You murdered your
friend!" cried conscience, with unyielding insistence. Poor
Dannie gave one last glance at Mary, and then turned, and for the
second time he ran from her as if pursued by demons. But this
time he went straight to Five Mile Hill, and the grave of Jimmy
Malone.
He sat down on it, and within a few feet of Jimmy's bones, Dannie
took his tired head in his hands, and tried to think, and for the
life of him, he could think but two things. That he had killed
Jimmy, and that to live longer without Mary would kill him. Hour
after hour he fought with his lifelong love for Jimmy and his
lifelong love for Mary. Night came on, the frost bit, the wind
chilled, and the little brown owls screeched among the
gravestones, and Dannie battled on. Morning came, the sun arose,
and shone on Dannie, sitting numb with drawn face and bleeding
heart.
Mary prepared a fine supper the night before, and patiently
waited, and when Dannie did not come, she concluded that he had
gone to town, without knowing that she had returned.
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