He came closer, waiting for an answer.
"And--I love you, Stephen."
He gathered her in his arms, and put his cold lips to hers,
without a word; then turned, and left her slowly.
She made no sign, shed no tear, as she stood, watching him go.
It was all over: she had willed it, herself, and yet--he could
not go! God would not suffer it! Oh, he could not leave her,--he
could not!--He went down the hill, slowly. If it were a trial of
life and death for her, did he know or care?--He did not look
back. What if he did not? his heart was true; he suffered in
going; even now he walked wearily. God forgive her, if she had
wronged him!--What did it matter, if he were hard in this life,
and it hurt her a little? It would come right,--beyond, some
time. But life was long.--She would not sit down, sick as she
was: he might turn, and it would vex him to see her suffer.--He
walked slowly; once he stopped to pick up something. She saw the
deep-cut face and half-shut eyes. How often those eyes had
looked into her soul, and it had answered! They never would look
so any more.--There was a tree by the place where the road turned
into town. If he came back, he would be sure to turn there.--How
tired he walked, and slow!--If he was sick, that beautiful woman
could be near him,--help him.-- SHE never would touch his hand
again,--never again, never,--unless he came back now.-- He was
near the tree: she closed her eyes, turning away. When she
looked again, only the bare road lay there, yellow and wet.
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