human
What is this mystery? How am I concerned in it? For I am, and mystery there is. It is like that mist over the island, which I can see and feel but cannot touch. Pshaw! I'm getting sentimental, when I ought to be turning detective. Yet I couldn't do that--pry into the private affairs of a man who's treated me so generously. What shall I do? How can I go back there? But where else can I go?
gpt
Who'll hunt what game they need? Who'll catch their fish? Who'll keep the garden growing? Where can I study the forest and its furry people, at first hand, as in the Hollow? And I was doing well. Not as I hope to do, but getting on. Margot was a merciless critic, but even she admitted that my last picture had the look, the spirit of the woods. That's what I want to do, what Mr. Dutton, also, approved; to bring glimpses of these solitudes back to the cities and the thousands who can never see them in any other way. Well--let it go. I can't stay and be a torment to anybody, and some time, in some other place, maybe---- Ah!