Burned Bridges

Still--he was not a fool. He knew that his concern was not for Sophie

Carr's immortal soul, nor for the beauty and sweetness of her spirit,

when he was near her, when he touched her hand, nor even in that supreme

moment when he crushed her close to his unquiet heart and pressed that

hot kiss on her lips. It was the sheer flesh and blood womanliness of

her that made his heart beat faster, the sweet curve of her lips, the

willowy grace of her body, the odd little gestures of her hands, the

melody of her voice and the gray pools of her eyes, eyes full of queer

gleams and curious twinkles--all these things were indescribably

beautiful to him. He loved her--just the girl herself. He wanted her,

craved her presence; not the pleasant memory of her, but the forthright

physical nearness of her he desired with an intensity that was like a

fever.

Just the excitement of feeling--as according to his lights he had a

right to feel--that they stood pledged, made it hard for him to get down

to fundamentals and consider rationally the question of marriage, of

their future, of how his appointed work could be made to dovetail with

the union of two such diverse personalities as himself and Sophie Carr.

A hodge podge of this sort was turning over in his mind as he sat there,

now and then absently feeling the dusky puffiness under one eye and the

tender spot on the bridge of his nose where Tommy Ashe's hard knuckles

had peeled away the skin. He still had a most un-Christian satisfaction

in the belief that he had given as good as he had got. He was not

ashamed of having fought. He would fight again, any time, anywhere, for

Sophie Carr. He did not ask himself whether the combative instinct once

aroused might not function for lesser cause.

He came out of this reverie at the faint rustle of footsteps beyond his

door--which was open because of the hot fire he had built.

He did not suspect that the source of those footsteps might be Sophie

Carr until she stood unmistakably framed in the doorway. He rose to his

feet with a glad cry of welcome, albeit haltingly articulated. He was

suddenly reluctant to face her with the marks of conflict upon his face.

"May I come in?" she asked coolly--and suited her action to the request

before he made reply.

She sat down on a box just within the door and looked soberly at him,

scanning his face. Her hands lay quietly in her lap and she did not

seem to see Thompson's involuntarily extended arms. There was about her

none of the glowing witchery of yesterday. She lifted to him a face

thoughtful, even a little sad. And Thompson's hands fell, his heart

keeping them company. It was as if the somberness of those wind-swept

woods had crept into his cabin. It stilled the rush of words that

quivered on his lips. Sophie, indeed, found utterance first.