That sense of loneliness had come upon her suddenly as she had watched
the young man's retreating figure. She could not help thinking of him
even when her mind was oppressed with anxiety on her father's account.
In a vague way she remembered how kind this stranger had been; how
quietly, and with what an air of protection, he had stood by her and
restrained her from crying out and alarming her father. As vaguely, she
remembered that in the moment of her terror she had clung to him, had
forgotten under the great strain that he was a stranger--and a man.
Even now she did not know his name, knew nothing of him except that he
was staying at The Woodman Inn.
Kind and considerate as he had been she thought of him with something
like resentment; it was as if he had stepped into her life, had
intruded upon its quiet uneventfulness. He had no right to be there, no
right, to have seen her father in that terrible condition, that death
in life. And she had behaved like a frightened servant-maid; had not
only clung to him--had she clung to him, or was it only fancy?--but had
left him without a word of thanks, had allowed him to wait there, and
then had waved her hand to him just as she had seen Jessie, the maid,
wave her hand to her "young man" after they had parted, and she was
going into the house.
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