Now that he had learned her name, and that her
father was alive, he stood mutely beside her, staring steadily at the chimneys
and stately dormered roof almost hidden behind the crimson maple foliage
across the valley—her home.
She had seated herself once more upon the moss, hands
clasped upon one knee, looking out into the west with dreamy eyes.
"I shall not be long," he said gently. "Will you wait
here for me? I will bring your father with me."
"I will wait for you. But you must come before the new
moon. Will you? I must go when the new moon lies in the west."
"Go, dearest? Where?"
"I may not tell you," she sighed, "but you will know very
soon—very soon now. And there will be no more sorrow, I think," she added
timidly.
"There will be no more sorrow," he repeated quietly.
"For the former things are passing away," she said.
He broke a heavy spray of golden-rod and laid it across
her knees; she held out a blossom to him—a blind gentain, blue as her eyes.
He kissed it.
"Be with me when the new moon comes," she whispered. "It
will be so sweet. I will teach you how divine is death, if you will come."
"You shall reach me the sweetness of life," he said tremulously.
"Yes—life. I did not know you called it by its truest
name."
So he went away, trudging sturdily down the lane, gun
glistening on his shoulder.
Where the lane joins the shadowy village street his dog
skulked up to him, sniffing at his heels.
A mill whistle was sounding; through the red rays of the
setting sun people were passing.
Along the row of village shops loungers followed him with
vacant eyes. He saw nothing, heard nothing, though a kindly voice called
after him, and a young girl smiled at him on her short journey through
the world.
The landlord of the Wildwood Inn sat sunning himself in
the red evening glow.
"Well, doctor," he said, "you look tired to death. Eh?
What's that you say?"
The young man repeated his question in a low voice. The
landlord shook his head.
"No, sir. The big house on the hill is empty—been empty
these three years. No, sir, there ain't no family there now. The old gentleman
moved away three years ago."
"You are mistaken," said the doctor; "his daughter tells
me he lives there."
"His—his daughter?" repeated the landlord. "Why, doctor,
she's dead." He turned to his wife, who sat sewing by the open window:
"Ain't it three years, Marthy?"
"Three years to-day," said the woman, biting off her thread.
"She's buried in the family vault.over the hill. She was a right pretty
little thing, too."
"Turned nineteen," mused the landlord, folding his newspaper
reflectively.
* * *
