The color ran over her face. She sparkled at him.
"Oh, now you've said it!" she entreated. "You've called me by my name. Now we can go back."
Osmond still smiled at her. He shook his head.
"You are very willful," he remarked.
"That's right. Abuse me. I like it, playmate."
But he could abuse her no more. Fancy in him was dead or dumb. He was tired of thinking, tired of his own life, with its special problems. A deep gravity came over her own face also. When she spoke, it was with a high dignity and seriousness.
"Osmond," she said, "I sent for you because I want to give you something before I go away. I can't bear to go. I can't bear to leave this place and grannie—and you. Sometimes I think I shall die of homesickness over there, even in the few weeks I stay, to think what may happen to you before I see you again. So I want to give it to you."
She was under some stress he did not understand, yet speaking with a determined quiet.
"What is it?" he asked gently.
She had no words left, only the two she had thought of for days and days until it had seemed to her he must hear her heart beating them out. She held her hands together in her lap, and spoke clearly, though it frightened her:—