The Hidden Places

ielding slowly to the conviction that life was less barren than it seemed. Or was that, he asked himself doubtfully, just another illusion which would up

irility of his body seemed nothing but a dismal fog in which he

s which he had once cherished as proven reality, he did not shrink from or misunderstand the cause underlying this potent change in his outlook. He pondered on

the knowledge that he possesses the comfort and security of a home can endure with fortitude the perils and hardships of a bitter trial, so Hollister could walk the streets of Vancouv

was the straw to which he, drowning, clung with all his might. The most depressing hour

evised that conclusion sharply in her case. He could not associate the most remote degree of helplessness with Doris Cleveland when they walked, for instance, through Stanley Park from English Bay to Second Beach. That broad path, with the Gulf swell muttering along the bouldery shore on one side and the wind whispering in the lofty branches of tall trees on the other, was a favorite haunt of theirs on crisp March days. The buds of the pussy willow

cheeks glowing with the brisk movement; and she could tell him with uncanny exactness when they came abreast of the old elk paddock and the bowling greens, or the rock groynes and bathhouse at Second Beach. She knew always when they turned the wide curve

with confiding trust. Doris Cleveland was too buoyantly healthy to be a clinging vine. She had too hardy an intellectual outlook. Her mind was like her body, vigorous, resili

him, then, to overlook the faint shadows than ran before coming events. It had been the most natural thing in the world to drift placidly until in more or less surprise he found himself caught fairl

God was in his heaven and all was well with the world. He had been stricken with a wariness concerning life, a reluctant distrust of much that in his old easy-g

g of her, he was thinking of himself in relation to her. He found himself involved in the most intimate sort of speculation concerning her. From the beginning he did not close his eyes to a possibility which might become a fact. Six months earlier he would honestly have denie

wn affairs, would presently come to an end. Sitting beside her on a shelving rock in the sun, Hollister would think of that and feel a pang. He would say to himself also, a trifle cynically, that if she could see him as he was, perhaps she would be like the rest: he would never have had the chance to know her, to sit beside her hearing the musical ripple of her voice when she laughed, seeing the swee

uthern border of Stanley Park which faced the Gulf over English Bay continued to be their haunt on every sunny afternoon, save o

ed music. Moreover she knew music, which is a thing apart from merely loving melodious sounds. Once, at the place where she was living, the home of a married cousin, Hollister heard her play the piano for the first time. He listened in astonishment, forgetting that a pianist does not need

void which would engulf him soon, for Doris told him one evening that in another week she was going back t

n with new grass. They faced a sinking sun, a ball of molten fire on the far crest of Vancouver Is

egret in his voice he did not try to hide it. "It has

pleasant month,

nd pale gold that merged by imperceptible tints into the translucent clearness of the upper sky. The red ball of the sun showed

when you are gone,

orry to go," she

s in a gesture of impo

always be o

" Hollister mutte

whelming certainty how badly he needed her, how much he wanted her-not only in ways that were sweet to think of, but as a friendly beacon in the murky, purposeless vista of years that stretched before him. Yes, and before her also. They had not spent all those hours toget

d be no Doris Cleveland; in which he would go his way vainly seeking the smile o

to withdraw it. He looked at her, peering into her face, and there was nothing to guide

t last. "I love you. I want you. I need you. Do yo

hance for the man and woman who undertake it. Perhaps I surprise you by

or surprise. Her lips were parted a little. Her expression, as he looked, grew different, inscrutable, a little absent even, as i

te chance?" she said slowly. "If

ce life with you, and a dread of it alone. You can't see my ugly face which frightens off other people, so it doesn't mean anything

mitted it, unresisting, that strange

e to love you-or don't

t Doris mad

lessly. "And I'm a woman. I'm blind-but I'm a woman. I've b