"Ah," he cried, "you are glad enough, now, to see me go! I knew it. I
wanted to spare myself that. I tried not to be a hysterical fool in your
eyes." He turned aside and his head fell on his breast. "God help me," he
said, "what will this place be to me now?"
The breeze had risen; it gathered force; it was a chill wind, and there
rose a wailing on the prairie. Drops of rain began to fall.
"You will not think a question implied in this," he said more composedly,
and with an unhappy laugh at himself. "I believe you will not think me
capable of asking you if you care----"
"No," she answered; "I--I do not love you."
"Ah! Was it a question, after all? I--you read me better than I do,
perhaps--but if I asked, I knew the answer."
She made as if to speak again, but words refused her.
After a moment, "Good-by," he said, very steadily. "I thank you for the
charity that has given me this little time with you--it will always be--
precious to me--I shall always be your servant." His steadiness did not
carry him to the end of his sentence. "Good-by."
She started toward him and stopped, without his seeing her. She answered
nothing; but stretched out her hand to him and then let it fall quickly.
"Good-by," he said again. "I shall go out the orchard gate. Please tell
them good-night for me. Won't you speak to me? Good-by.
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