III.

She was going up the schoolhouse lane towards Karva, because Roddy and
she had gone that way together on Friday, his last evening.

It was Sunday now; six o'clock: the time he used to bring Papa home. His
ship would have left Queenstown, it would be steering to the west.

She wondered how much he had really minded going. Perhaps he had only
been afraid he wouldn't be strong enough; for after he had seen the
doctor he had been different. Pleased and excited. Perhaps he didn't
mind so very much.

If she could only remember how he had looked and what he had said. He had
talked about the big Atlantic liner, and the Canadian forests. With luck
the voyage might last eleven or twelve clear days. You could shoot moose
and wapiti. Wapiti and elk. Elk. With his eyes shining. He was not quite
sure about the elk. He wished he had written to the High Commissioner for
Canada about the elk. That was what the Commissioner was there for, to
answer questions, to encourage you to go to his beastly country.

She could hear Roddy's voice saying these things as they walked over
Karva. He was turning it all into an adventure, his imagination playing
round and round it. And on Saturday morning he had been sick and couldn't
eat his breakfast. Mamma had been sorry, and at the same time vexed and
irritable as if she were afraid that the arrangements might, after all,
be upset. But in the end he had gone off, pleased and excited, with Jem
Alderson in the train.

She could see Jem's wide shoulders pushing through the carriage door