“Thank you.” The voice was very low. They were both silent for a time, and then Parker left her with the evening’s sunshine in her hair. Why, now that he must leave her, had the girl suddenly appeared so fair to him? This new sweetness sat well upon her. How deeply blue were her eyes, and what tender lights came into them when she spoke of little Honey. Yes, it was better that he should go now—at once; later it might be harder. A minister’s wife she would be, and as the years passed by and she had learned her lessons of patience and unselfish devotion, how lovable she would become to those of her husband’s congregation. “I am a middle-aged man in her eyes,” he said aloud, “and it would be cruel to disturb her little tender heart now when all is settled for her, and yet—and yet—” He stood so long leaning on the fence that Agnes, watching him, wondered a little.
“He is thinking of home, maybe, and of his sister. He will be so lonely off by himself and—oh, I shall be lonely, too. Oh, Honey, I, too. Polly has her Jimmy, and poor father does not know, and if they take you,—oh, Honey, if they take you,—how can I stand it? But there is mother,” she said presently; “she will be coming soon.”
“Mammy,” said Honey. “Dad put Honey in a tree, an’ it sailded away. I lubs Nanny an’ I ’ants my supper.”
“Honey shall have his supper,” Agnes told him, and she carried him into the house to have his mush and milk with the other children. Then she crept to her loft room. From the window she could see that Parker was still leaning on the fence. Behind the hills the sun was setting in a gorgeous sky. The willows emerging from the late waste of waters showed their first tender green; the hylos piped shrilly. Agnes’s heart throbbed painfully. A beautiful world, and out of troubles sometimes arise blessings. She heard Jimmy’s cheerful voice below relating adventures to her father whose pleased smile she fancied she could see. “I am lonely, lonely,” cried the girl. She arose from her little stool by the window and, with a sudden resolve, clambered down the ladder. Polly had stowed all the babies away in the trundle-bed, and the four were fast asleep. “Where are you going, Nancy?” Polly asked.
“Out to smell the spring,” was the answer, as the girl shut the door behind her. She followed the path uphill to the top. Before she reached the figure standing there she paused. The glory of the sky was to be seen more plainly here. From the hollow below one might imagine the day to be done, but here one could see that rosy clouds swept across the sky and the yellow light along the horizon still shone clearly.
Conscious of her presence, Parker turned suddenly. She came and stood by his side. “One sees things more distinctly from a height,” he said musingly.
“Yes, it is quite dark indoors. I was so lonely and I—I saw you here by yourself. You will be lonely, too, so often now, for you are going away—you are going away.” There was a little catch in her voice, and the man at her side put forth his hand and took hers, cold and trembling, in his. Agnes looked up. His touch brought comfort. “I’m not going to be a minister’s wife,” she said, her lips quivering. “I could never be.”
“Oh, little girl, little girl,” he said softly, “how did you know so well what to come and tell me? I was lonely, too, as lonely as you were, but I am older, much older, and one must bear those things. It is harder than you know for me to go away, but it is best. A man must make his own home.”
“Yes,” faltered Agnes, “I know.”
“But I’ll come back.”