For a while she sat on the porch, and
presently she went into her room and for a few moments she rocked
quietly at her window. Hale was going away next day, and when he
came back she would be gone and she would never see him again. A
dry sob shook her body of a sudden, she put both hands to her head
and with wild eyes she sprang to her feet and, catching up her
bonnet, slipped noiselessly out the back door. With hands clenched
tight she forced herself to walk slowly across the foot-bridge,
but when the bushes hid her, she broke into a run as though she
were crazed and escaping a madhouse. At the foot of the spur she
turned swiftly up the mountain and climbed madly, with one hand
tight against the little cross at her throat. He was going away
and she must tell him--she must tell him--what? Behind her a voice
was calling, the voice that pleaded all one night for her not to
leave him, that had made that plea a daily prayer, and it had come
from an old man--wounded, broken in health and heart, and her
father. Hale's face was before her, but that voice was behind, and
as she climbed, the face that she was nearing grew fainter, the
voice she was leaving sounded the louder in her ears, and when she
reached the big Pine she dropped helplessly at the base of it,
sobbing.
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