I pick up a little dry twig and hold it in my hand and sit
looking at it, and think my own thoughts; the twig is almost rotten, its
poor bark touches me, pity fills my heart. And when I get up again, I do
not throw the twig far away, but lay it down, and stand liking it; at
last I look at it once more with wet eyes before I go away and leave it
there.
Five o'clock. The sun tells me false time today; I have been walking
westward the whole day, and come perhaps half an hour ahead of my sun
marks at the hut. I am quite aware of all this, but none the less there
is an hour yet before six o'clock, so I get up again and go on a little.
And the leaves rustle under foot. An hour goes that way.
I look down at the little stream and the little mill that has been
icebound all the winter, and I stop. The mill is working; the noise of
it wakes me, and I stop suddenly, there and then. "I have stayed out
too long," I say aloud. A pang goes through me; I turn at once and begin
walking homewards, but all the time I know I have stayed out too long. I
walk faster, then run; Asop understands there is something the matter,
and pulls at the leash, drags me along, sniffs at the ground, and is all
haste. The dry leaves crackle about us.
But when we come to the edge of the wood there was no one there.
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