A week later Darrell was duly installed at the mining camp. Mr. Britton
had already left, called on private business to another part of the
State. After his departure, life at The Pines did not seem the same to
Darrell. He sorely missed the companionship--amounting almost to
comradeship, notwithstanding the disparity of their years--which had
existed between them from their first meeting, and he was not sorry when
the day came for him to exchange the comfort and luxury with which the
kindness of Mr. Underwood and his sister had surrounded him for the
rough fare and plain quarters of the mining camp.
Mrs. Dean, when informed of Darrell's position at the camp, had most
strenuously objected to his going, and had immediately stipulated that
he was to return to The Pines every Saturday and remain until Monday.
"Of course he's coming home every Saturday, and as much oftener as he
likes," her brother had interposed. "This is his home, and he
understands it without any words from us."
On the morning of his departure he realized as never before the depth of
the affection of his host and hostess for himself, manifesting itself as
it did in silent, unobtrusive acts of homely but heartfelt kindness. As
the storing of Darrell's belongings in the wagon which was to convey him
to the camp was about completed, Mrs. Dean appeared, carrying a large,
covered basket, with snow-white linen visible between the gaping edges
of the lids. This she deposited within the wagon, saying, as she turned
to Darrell,-"There's a few things to last you through the week, just so you don't
forget how home cooking tastes."
And at the last moment there was brought from the stables at Mr.
Underwood's orders, for Darrell's use in going back and forth between
The Pines and the camp, a beautiful bay mare which had belonged to Harry
Whitcomb, and which, having sadly missed her young master, greeted
Darrell with a low whinny, muzzling his cheek and nosing his pockets for
sugar with the most affectionate familiarity.
It was a cold, bleak morning. The ground had frozen after a heavy rain,
and the wagon jolted roughly over the ruts in the canyon road, making
slow progress. The sky was overcast and straggling snowflakes wandered
aimlessly up and down in the still air.
Darrell, from his seat beside the driver, turned occasionally to speak
to Trix, the mare, fastened to the rear end of the wagon and daintily
picking her way along the rough road. Sometimes he hummed a bit of
half-remembered song, but for the most part he was silent. While not
attempting any definite analysis of his feelings, he was distinctly
conscious of conflicting emotions. He was deeply touched by the kindness
of Mr. Underwood and Mrs. Dean, and felt a sort of self-condemnation
that he was not more responsive to their affection. He knew that their
home and hearts were alike open to him; that he was as welcome as one of
their own flesh and blood; yet he experienced a sense of relief at
having escaped from the unvarying kindliness for which, at heart, he was
profoundly grateful. Even late that night, in the solitude of his
plainly furnished room, with the wind moaning outside and the snow
tapping with muffled fingers against the window pane, he yet exulted in
a sense of freedom and happiness hitherto unknown in the brief period
which held all he recalled of life.