"What's wrong?" begged Philip gently. "I've been watching you for
hours, Diane, and you've scarcely moved an inch."
"Nothing," said Diane. But her voice was so lifeless, her lack of
interest in Philip's sudden appearance so pointed, that he glanced
keenly at her colorless face and frowned.
"There is something, I'm sure," he insisted kindly. "You look it."
Finding that she did not trouble to reply, he produced his wildwood
pipe and fell to smoking.
"Likely I'll stay here," said Philip quietly, "until you tell me.
Surely you know, Diane, that in anything in God's world that concerns
you, I stand ready to help you if you need me."
It was manfully spoken but Diane's lips faintly curled. Philip's fine
frank face colored hotly and he looked away.
In silence they sat there, Philip smoking restlessly and wondering,
Diane staring at the creek, with Ronador's impassioned voice ringing
wildly in her ears.
In the east the sky turned faintly primrose, the creek glowed faintly
pink. The great moon glided lower by the marsh with the branch of a
dead tree black against its brilliant shield. Marsh and oak were
faintly gray. The metallic ocean had already caught the deepening glow
of life. Where the stream stole swampwards, a mist curled slowly up
from the water like beckoning ghosts draped in nebulous rags.
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