She withdrew her hand, and they talked a little about
her journey.
"But you will come back," he said to her, presently, with earnestness;
"your friends here will think it an honor and a privilege to
welcome you."
"Oh yes, I shall come back. Unless--I have some friends in London--East
London. Perhaps I might work there."
He shook his head.
"No, you are not strong enough. Come back here. There is God's work to
be done in this village, Miss Mallory. Come and put your hand to it. But
not yet--not yet."
Then her weariness told him that he had said enough, and he went.
* * * * *
Late that night Diana tore herself from Muriel Colwood, went alone to
her room, and locked her door. Then she drew back the curtains, and
gazed once more on the same line of hills she had seen rise out of the
wintry mists on Christmas morning. The moon was still behind the down,
and a few stars showed among the clouds.
She turned away, unlocked a drawer, and, falling upon her knees by the
bed, she spread out before her the fragile and time-stained paper that
held her mother's last words to her.
"MY LITTLE DIANA--my precious child,--It may be--it will
be--years before this reaches you.
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