Claire: The Blind Love of a Blind Hero, by a Blind Author. Leslie Burton Blades

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      She watched him silently. When he stopped, she said: "Straight to your left is the rock. Get the fire started. Then you can move the invalid."

      He took the moss and felt his way to the rock, which was eight or ten feet square and practically flat, standing up almost a foot from the ground.

      "Now, for a dry stick or two," he said, cheerily.

      She directed him, and at last he found what he thought would do. Then began the age-old procedure of twisting a pointed stick between one's hands, the point resting on another piece of wood, until friction brought a flame. It was a long, hard experiment; several times he stopped to rest; but the consciousness of the skeptical expression he knew to be on her face sent him quickly back again to his task. At last the moss began to burn. True, it smoked much and flamed little, but he gathered twigs from the shrubs near by and in time had a good fire. Then he carried Claire to the rock and set her down beside it. She leaned her elbow on the edge and said, happily: "It's quite a success, Lawrence. I really feel as though we were progressing."

      "Our woodcraft will doubtless improve with experience," he answered.

      "Next, I guess we had better bathe your ankle," he observed, as though giving due care to the order of procedure.

      "Very well," she replied.

      At her suggestion he gathered moss and wet it in the tiny stream. She wound it about her ankle and held it tightly.

      "Now the surgeon orders splints and bandages," she said.

      He brought several sticks, and with a strip which she tore from the lining of his coat, she bound them fast.

      "There," she said, sighing, for the pain was wearing. "That ought to help. I wonder what our distant grandparents did in such cases."

      "Made the best of it," he said cheerfully. "Many of them died, I suppose."

      "And we are back again at their game. Whether we can outwit the master strategist and survive, is at least interesting to try."

      "In any event, we'll have to eat to do it," he said shortly.

      She studied the greenery about her, meditatively. "It's probable that most any of these things are edible, but are they nourishing?"

      "We'll try them. Which shall I get?" he asked.

      "I hate to start in on roots or leaves. If we only had some berries!"

      He got up determinedly. "I'll go down the ravine and hunt. If I get mixed in directions, I'll shout."

      She watched him go, and when he had disappeared through the trees she felt strangely sadder and very much alone. She fell to wondering if he were really so necessary to her. Sooner or later would come the inevitable problem between them. Would he fall in love with her, and would she, in the days that they might be alone together, find his companionship growing into any really vital proportion in her life? That she, Claire Barkley, rich and independent, whose life had been selfish to a marked degree and who had never considered anything except from the point of view of vigor, perfection, or beauty, should ever love a blind man was incredible.

      "No," she thought, "not even the closest of daily relationships with him could ever make me really care. He is not of my life." She wondered how much she would sacrifice for him if it were necessary in their pilgrimage toward civilization, and she answered herself, frankly: "No more than I must to maintain a balance in our forced business partnership." She knew that was all this meant to her.

      From down the ravine she heard him shouting lustily, and she answered, her clear, rich voice waking pleasant echoes as she called. She waited for some time before he came. In his arms he carried a bundle of branches loaded with red berries, while in one hand was a clump of large mushrooms.

      Claire watched him as he approached, and was surprised at the ease with which he walked. There was less hesitation in his stride than she had thought, and he came briskly through the trees, dodging as though by instinct.

      When he reached the rock, it was characteristic of her that she said: "You came through those trees remarkably well."

      He laughed. "I have an uncanny way of feeling things on my face before they touch me. I experimented somewhat with it in the laboratory at college. It's a sort of tropism, perhaps, such as bugs have, that enables them to keep between two planks or that turns plant-roots toward the sun. Anyway, I've brought some breakfast. These berries may be good, and these other things may be toadstools. I brought them along."

      "How does one tell?" she asked.

      "Oh, mushrooms are pink underneath and ribbed like a fan."

      She examined them and said they might be mushrooms, they looked it. He sat down again, but not until he had replenished the fire.

      "They may be poison, both of them," he hazarded. "That's our sporting chance. Will you try them?"

      Claire took some of the berries and ate them. "I don't feel anything yet," she announced after a minute's solemn munching.

      "Oh, you probably won't for several hours anyway," he said lightly. Then he continued: "If we could devise a way, we might heat water and cook the mushrooms. Then, too, I've been thinking we might even catch a bird."

      "Neither sounds very simple."

      "Nothing in life is simple," he replied. "At home, in America, where we leave food-getting to the farmer, dress from a store, and go to heaven by way of a minister, things are fairly well arranged, but here we aren't even sure of salvation unless we mind the business of thinking." He continued after a pause. "Of course, I don't especially remember that I counted on heaven. It always seemed a bit distant in the face of living and working. Perhaps, however, you counted it as vital."

      "I was fairly occupied with more immediate things," she answered. "However, that is a different world from this. What we did then can't especially matter to us here. This is our place of business, so to speak, and social life doesn't factor."

      "I see." He accepted the snub thoughtfully. "But this business of ours will grow exceedingly irksome without talk. I doubt if we can find the means of escape an all-sufficient topic."

      "We haven't boiled our water yet," she said. "And the bird is still free to roam."

      He did not carry on his line of thought aloud. If she had known what was going on in his mind, she might have been angered. He was wondering just how much thinking she was capable of. Certain that she was beautiful, he had scarcely allowed that to occupy him. His experience had led him to estimate people almost wholly by their ability to be open-minded. In his struggle against blindness, he had concluded that open minds were rare indeed, and persons who limited his freedom of action or tended to baby him he had grown to dismiss with a shrug. Claire did not belong to that class. "She has shown remarkable willingness to let me go my own pace," he thought, "but is this due to her mind or to mere indifference?" He decided at last that the relationship would be tiresome for both of them, and that she was not especially eager to prevent it from being so. This conclusion led him to adopt a definite attitude toward her. She could do as she pleased; he, for his part, would treat her simply as an uninteresting person, a machine that furnished the eyes which he could use in his travel to liberty.

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