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It was curious to Hollister, the manner in which Doris could see so clearly this valley and river and the slope where his timber stood. She could not only envision the scene of their home and his future operations, but she could discuss these things with practical wisdom.
Curiously, the last two or three weeks this queer, blurred sort of vision I have seems quite sufficient. I haven't wanted to see half so badly as I've wanted you. I can get impressions enough through the other four senses. I'd hate awfully to have to get along without you. You've become almost a part of me I wonder if you understand that?" Hollister did understand.
The following year, as above stated, he was sent to Oconomowoc, but here his health failed, and he was compelled to rest a year. In 1852 he was re-admitted and again appointed to Oconomowoc, with Rev. T.O. Hollister as Assistant.
He could not kill memory, and since he was a man, a physically perfect man, virile and unspent, memory tortured him. He could not escape the consequences of being, the dominant impulses of life. No normal man can. He may think he can. He may rest secure for a time in that belief, but it will fail him. And of this Hollister now became aware.
Hollister thought of all that had happened to all the people he knew, the men he had seen killed and maimed, driven insane by the shocks of war; of Doris, stricken blind in the full glow of youth; Myra pulled and hauled this way and that because she was as she was and powerless to be otherwise; himself marred and shunned and suffering intolerable agonies of spirit; of Bland, upon whom had fallen the black mantle of unnecessary tragedy; and Mills, who had paid for his passion with his life.
It was altogether likely that he had been doing so, that he had seen Myra sitting beside Hollister with her hand on his shoulder, bending forward to peer into Hollister's face. And Hollister could easily imagine what Bland might feel and think. But he was steadily watching Myra. Once he turned the glasses for a few seconds on Hollister's house.
She was frowning a little with the fixity of her concentration as she turned to snatch up her long gloves and she did not hear Mrs. Sandworth's question until it had been repeated, "I said, Lydia, is it to be bridge this afternoon?" "I don't know," said Lydia with the full stop of absent indifference. "Didn't Mrs. Hollister say?" "Maybe she did. I didn't notice." The girl was tugging at her glove.
The wind droned its ancient, melancholy chant among the telephone wires, shook with its unseen, powerful hands a row of bare maples across the way, rattled the windows in their frames. Now and then, in a momentary lull of the wind, a brief cessation of the city noises, Hollister could hear far off the beat of the Gulf seas bursting on the beach at English Bay, snoring in the mouth of False Creek.
She came back to where Hollister sat on the steps. She put her hand on his knee, looked searchingly into his face. Her pansy-blue eyes met his steadily. The expression in them stirred Hollister. "Mind you, Robin, I don't think your Doris is superficial enough to be repelled by a facial disfigurement.
Almost the first man he met on Cordova Street, when he went about in search of bolt cutters, was Bill Hayes, sober and unshaven and a little crestfallen. "Why didn't you come back?" Hollister asked. Hayes grinned sheepishly. "Kinda hated to," he admitted. "Pulled the same old stuff dry town, too. Shot the roll. Dang it, I'd ought to had more sense. Well, that's the way she goes. You want men?"
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