But, he kept continually recalling, when he had stood once more
face to face with her and had been shocked at the change in her
and had heard the details of her adversity, he had not had the
heart to tell her of the closer interest which had entered his
life. He had not lied; yet he had kept silence.
Bess was in transports over the stores of supplies and the outfit
he had packed from Cottonwoods. He had certainly brought a
hundred times more than he had gone for; enough, surely, for
years, perhaps to make permanent home in the valley. He saw no
reason why he need ever leave there again.
After a day of rest he recovered his strength and shared Bess's
pleasure in rummaging over the endless packs, and began to plan
for the future. And in this planning, his trip to Cottonwoods,
with its revived hate of Tull and consequent unleashing of fierce
passions, soon faded out of mind. By slower degrees his
friendship for Jane Withersteen and his contrition drifted from
the active preoccupation of his present thought to a place in
memory, with more and more infrequent recalls.
And as far as the state of his mind was concerned, upon the
second day after his return, the valley, with its golden hues and
purple shades, the speaking west wind and the cool, silent night,
and Bess's watching eyes with their wonderful light, so wrought
upon Venters that he might never have left them at all.
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