And from that he went away back into dim and distant yesterdays, alive with mellowed memories of boyhood days spent on a farm.

To all these things Marette listened with glowing eyes, with low laughter, or with breath that rose or fell with his own emotions.
She told of her own days down at school and of their appalling loneliness; of childhood spent in the forests; of the desire to live there always.

But she did not speak intimately of herself or her life in its more vital aspects; she said nothing of the home in the Valley of Silent Men, nothing of father or mother, sisters or brothers.

There was no embarrassment in her omissions.

And Kent did not question.