"Oh, I love Jean Isbel--an' my heart will burst or break!" The might of her passion was like the blaze of the sun.

Before it all else retreated, diminished.

The suddenness of the truth dimmed her sight.

But she saw clearly enough to crawl into the pine thicket, through the clutching, dry twigs, over the mats of fragrant needles to the covert where she had once spied upon Jean Isbel.

And here she lay face down for a while, hands clutching the needles, breast pressed hard upon the ground, stricken and spent.