Dale grunted, shook himself, and went off the ride in the opposite
direction--to tread the moss that had been crushed by Norah's
footsteps, to push against the branches that had touched her
shoulders, to see the dead flowers that had dropped from her hands. He
found a shriveled sprig or two of her woodland posy, and carried them
to the fallen beech tree.
She was gone now--already a long way from him--at the railway station,
with ticket bought, and box labeled, waiting for the train to take her
still farther from him. Only a heron could fly fast enough to get to
her now before the train possessed her. And he quoted himself again,
really saying the words aloud this time. "Good-by--my darling--good-by,
good-by."
That was what he meant when he gave her the last kiss. He had said so.
He had called it the last kiss. But she--poor lamb--thought it was the
last kiss till next time; that it was good-by for three weeks, not
good-by forever. He must never see her again. There could be no two
ways about _that_ decision. He mustn't palter, or trifle, or
shilly-shally about that iron certainty. But how without Heaven's
unceasing aid would he have strength to keep such a vow?
And sitting on the tree, and thinking for a little while about himself
rather than about her, he endeavored to survey his situation in the
logical clear-sighted way that had once been customary with him.
Pages:
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422