He stooped and filled his arms with wood, and walked ahead of her up the pathway to the kitchen door, and stopped when she flitted past him to show him where the wood-box stood.

He was conscious then of her slenderness and of the lightness of her steps.
He dropped the wood into the box behind the stove on which kettles were steaming.

There was the smell of chicken stewing, and the odor of fresh-baked pies.
She smiled up at him and offered him a crisp, warn cookie with sugared top, and he saw her eyes again and felt the same tremor at his heart.
He pulled himself together and smiled back at her, thanked her and went out, stumbling a little on the doorstep, the cookie untasted in his fingers.
He walked down to the corral and began fumbling at his pack, his thoughts hushed before the revelation that had come to him.
"Her hands--her poor, little, red hands!" he said in a whisper as the memory of them came suddenly.

But it was her eyes that he was seeing with his mind; her eyes, and what lay deep within.

They troubled him, shook him, made him want to use his man-strength against something that was hurting her.