The next day I insisted on climbing the slope to the pine-wood
without support of her arm.
"It is time," said I, "that I grew strong; unless somewhere you are
hiding a fairy purse."
She looked at me--for between us, by this time, one spoken word would
be the key to a dozen unspoken. "You are not fit to start," she
stammered hastily, "nor will be for a long while. There are
mountains behind these, and again more mountains--" She broke off
and sat down upon a pine-log, trembling.
"I was not thinking of that," said I; "but of these people and their
hospitality. Since we have no money I must work for them--at least,
until I can get money sent from England."
She glanced at me again, and with a shiver up at the snow peaks
beyond the pines. I could read that she struggled with something,
deep within her, and I waited. By-and-by she leaned forward, clasped
her hands about her knee, and sat silent for a long minute, gazing
southward over the plain at our feet.
"Listen," she said at length, but without turning her eyes. "I have
something to confess to you." Her voice dragged upon the words; but
she went on, "You have not asked me what has happened in Genoa
after--that night.
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