For a moment, Barth walked on in silence, unable to construe her words into the phrase which he was waiting to hear. Then he spoke again.
“I went out to Sainte Anne-de-Beaupré, one morning last week,” he said slowly. “It was very desolate there, at this season. I walked out on the pier. Then I went back and sat in the church for quite a long time, and I thought about things. Miss Howard, I wish I had never given you that guinea.”
With an odd little laugh, which was yet half a sob, Nancy put her hand into her pocket, felt about underneath the little silver image, and slowly drew out a shining bit of gold.
“Here it is, Mr. Barth,” she said. “Take it back, if you wish it.”
Taking it from her outstretched hand, he stared at it intently for a moment. Then he held it out to her again.
“And you have carried it, all this time?”
“No,” she confessed reluctantly. “Only lately.”
“Oh, but—”
“I have called it my lucky penny,” she interrupted, with a smile. “I had never supposed you would regret giving it to me.”
Still with the coin in the hollow of his hand, he put on his glasses and peered into her face. He read there something which he had missed in her tone. Dropping his glasses again, he held out the shining golden guinea.