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Updated: May 17, 2025
She knew there was untruth in what she was saying for no one, not even God, would ever take care of Peter again in life. His still little face and the terrible grief in her own heart told her that. For Peter's back was broken, and he was going going even now as she ran moaningly with him through the deep aisles of the forest.
Fairley had leaped back and cowered, suddenly sobered, against the wall as the outer door opened and figures poured into the room. After the low scream that came moaningly up from her breast, which was drowned in the echoes of the report, Mary Burton made no outcry. She no longer leaned limp and nerveless against the support of the doorway.
"Oh, I am very tired," was all she said, moaningly and wearily, passing her hand across her aching brow like a worn-out child. It was life or death to him. To her it was such a little matter! What were all his words and his prayers beside that heartache that was driving her into her grave! He could do her no good. Why could he not leave her in peace?
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