When Elizabeth finally came back to him it was as something very gentle

and remote, out of the long-forgotten past. Even his image of her

was blurred and shadowy. He could not hear the tones of her voice, or

remember anything she had said. He could never bring her at will, as

he could David, for instance. She only came clearly at night, while he

slept. Then the guard was down, and there crept into his dreams a small

figure, infinitely loving and tender; but as he roused from sleep she

changed gradually into Beverly. It was Beverly's arms he felt around his

neck. Nevertheless he held to Elizabeth more completely than he knew,

for the one thing that emerged from his misty recollection of her was

that she cared for him. In a world of hate and bitterness she cared.

But she was never real to him, as the other woman was real. And he knew

that she was lost to him, as David was lost. He could never go back to

either of them.

As time went on he reached the point of making practical plans. He had

lost his pocketbook somewhere, probably during his wanderings afoot,

and he had no money. He knew that the obvious course was to go to the

nearest settlement and surrender himself and he played with the thought,

but even as he did so he knew that he would not do it. Surrender he

would, eventually, but before he did that he would satisfy a craving

that was in some ways like his desire for liquor that morning on the

trail. A reckless, mad, and irresistible impulse to see Beverly Lucas

again.

In August he started for the railroad, going on foot and without money,

his immediate destination the harvest fields of some distant ranch, his

object to earn his train fare to New York.




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