"Yes," said Tira, "so do. Now I'd better go."
They got up and Nan put her hands on Tira's shoulders—and one hand was numb from that iron clasp—and stood looking at her. Nan was not a kissing woman, but she considered whether she should kiss her, to show she loved her. She thought not. Tira's body had so revolted against life, the life of the earth that had grown up into a jungle, that it would be kinder to leave it inviolate even by a touch.
"Don't you want to change your mind?" Nan asked. "Mayn't I get the car? It's seven long miles, Tira."
"Not the way I'm goin'," said Tira. There was a little smile at the corners of her mouth. It was a kind smile, a mother smile. She meant to leave Nan reassured. "I go 'cross lots, by old Moosewood's steppin' stones."
Nan withdrew her hands and thought absently how thin Tira's shoulders were under her dress. She was like a ship, built for endurance and speed, but with all her loveliness in the beauty of bare line. Tira put on her hat and took up her daffodils and followed, out at the front door and down the path. Nan looked back.
"You've left the door open," said she. "Don't you want to lock up?"
"No," said Tira, "he'll see to it."
At the gate they parted, with a little smile from Tira, the kind that so strangely changed her into something more childlike than her youth.
"You come," she said, "in the mornin'. I shall be there, an' glad enough to have you."
She turned away and broke at once into her easy stride. Nan stood a minute watching her. Then something came up in her, a surge of human love, the pity of it all—Tira, Raven, the world, and perhaps a little of it Nan—and she ran after her. The tears were splashing down her face and blurring the bright day.