The lugubrious voice of Mr. Hicks declaiming reached him: "Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring Your Winter-garment of Repentance fling! The Bird of Time has but a little way To flutter--and the bird is on the wing."
That was the worst of it, Wallie thought despairingly. The Bird of Time had but a little way to flutter. He was so old--twenty-seven! The realization that he was still a failure at this advanced age increased his misery. He was a fool to go on hoping that he meant anything to Helene Spenceley or ever would; but, just the same--Wallie stood up and squared his shoulders--if he couldn't have the woman he wanted there wouldn't be any other! He would sell his place for what he could get for it, pay his debts, and go to Tahiti and be a beach-comber, or to Guatemala and start a revolution, or live a hermit in the Arctic Circle, trapping for a fur company! He would do whatever he could to forget her.
Then, suddenly, he wished that he was a little boy again and could sit on Aunt Mary's lap and lay his head on her shoulder the way he used to when he came home from school with a sick headache. It always had comforted him. A heartache was worse than a headache by a whole lot. Somehow he was so lonely--so inexpressibly lonely. He had not felt like this even that first winter on his homestead.
A lump rose in his throat to choke him, and he was about to turn away lest someone see the mist in his eyes that blinded him, and that he felt horribly ashamed of, when the sound of hoofs attracted his attention and caused him to grow alert in an instant.
He was sure that it was Stott returning, and then he caught a glimpse of him through the trees--galloping.
"Oh, here you are!" exclaimed that person, irritably, as he turned off the road and came through the brush toward Wallie.
There was a bright shine in Wallie's eyes as he walked toward him.
"Why didn't you tell me you were going to camp in the middle of the morning?" Stott demanded in his rasping voice as he dismounted.
Wallie returned evenly: "You know as well as I do that choosing a camp is left to Hicks' judgment. I told you not to get ahead of the supply-wagon."
"If you think I'm going to poke along behind like a snail, you're mistaken!" Stott retorted.
Wallie's face went white under its tan, though his voice was quiet enough as he answered: "You'll 'poke' this afternoon, I'm thinking."