These things he knew from observation, from stern experience, not from that broad term “instinct” under which men are so prone to lump all animal knowledge and dismiss it as a settled fact. True he had instinctive knowledge of some things—not many—but in the main it was experience that had taught him. Once failing, he profited by his loss and learned each day.
Flash raised his head and peered toward the break through which the game trail topped the bench and the girl knew that he heard Moran. He soon joined her on the ledge. Each knew the longing that throbbed in the other’s heart, but neither spoke of it.
Moran had pondered long over what this trouble could be—this reason why she could not freely give herself to him. He knew that it had to do with the gray, moss-covered cabin, built secretly so long ago. Something had sprung up out of the past to lay its skeleton hands on her, snatched her up out of her smoothly polished little groove in life, and sent her traveling across the seamy cross currents of new viewpoints which were hard to face.
Kinney must know. Dad Kinney was a very old man and had lived a long life in the hills.
