He tried to speak, and choked a little. A big drop of rain fell on his
bare head. Neither of them noticed the weather or cared for it. They stood
with the renewed blackness hanging like a thick drapery between them.
"Can--can you--tell me why you think you ought not to go?" he whispered,
finally, with a great effort.
"No; not now. But I know you would think I am right in wanting to stay,"
she cried, impulsively. "I know you would, if you knew about it--but I
can't, I can't. I must go in the morning."
"I should always think you right," he answered in an unsteady tone,
"Always!" He went over to the bench, fumbled about for his hat, and picked
it up.
"Come," he said, gently, "I am going now."
She stood quite motionless for a full minute or longer; then, without a
word, she moved toward the house. He went to her with hands extended to
find her, and his fingers touched her sleeve. Then together and silently
they found the garden-path; and followed its dim length. In the orchard he
touched her sleeve again and led the way.
As they came out behind the house she detained him. Stopping short, she
shook his hand from her arm. She spoke in a single breath, as if it were
all one word:
"Will you tell me why you go? It is not late. Why do you wish to leave me,
when I shall not see you again?"
"The Lord be good to me!" he broke out, all his long-pent passion of
dreams rushing to his lips, now that the barrier fell.
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