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She was a child of impulse, sensitive and plastic. Because she

had been hard on him before he was struck down, her spirit ran

open-armed to make amends. What manner of man he was she did not

know. But what availed that to keep her, a creature of fire and

dew, from the clutch of emotions strange and poignant? He had

called himself a liar and a coyote, yet she knew it was not true,

or at worst, true in some qualified sense. He might be hard,

reckless, even wicked in some ways. But, vaguely, she felt that

if he were a sinner he sinned with self-respect. He was in no

moral collapse, at least. It was impossible to fit him to her

conception of a spy. No, no! Anything but that!

So she sat there, her fingers laced about her knee, as she leaned

forward to wait upon the needs she could imagine for him, the

dumb tragedy of despair in her childish face.