“Yes,” said Hilda vaguely.
They walked in silence through the woods. Clouds hid the moon, and the wind had risen.
Peter had dreary thoughts. He felt like a ghost in the ghost-like unreality of existence. The walk through the melancholy dimness seemed symbolical of a wandering, aimless life. The touch of Hilda Archinard’s little hand in his was comforting. When they had passed through the Priory shrubbery and were nearing the house, Hilda’s step beside him paused.
“Will you kiss me ‘Good-bye’ here, not before them all?”
“What beastly things ‘Good-byes’ are,” Odd said, looking down at the glimmering oval of her uplifted face; “what thoroughly beastly things.” He took the little face between his hands and kissed her: “Good-bye, dear little Hilda.”
“Thank you so much—for everything,” she said.
“Thank you, my child. I shall not forget you.”
“Don’t be different. Try not to change.”
“Ah, Hilda! Hilda!”
That she, not he, would change was the inevitable thing. He stooped and kissed again the child beside him.