"I think, never. I cannot see how or why I should return."
Lassie's lips quivered. "And your house?" she whispered.
A long, sad breath passed over lips that did not quiver. "Ah, yes, my house," she answered softly; "I thought of going to it this afternoon, and then I could not. Dear little home nest,—there are nothing but happy thoughts there; all my best is there—unselfish dreams, devoted hopes, great aims, longings to make some one and every one glad."
She paused. Lassie leaned close.
"May I lie down beside you, Alva, and put my arms around you and hold you tightly, dear? It will be good-by, for you want me to go just the same, I know."
"Yes, dear, you must go. What time is it?"
"It's over an hour till the train. Let me hold you close, dear, I—I love you."
"Yes, Lassie, come; I'll be glad to have you. Your head will lie on my arm, and I shall like to draw you near as I might have drawn a little child, had life fallen out differently long ago."
Lassie crept up on the bed, clasped her arms about her and tried not to weep.
"You don't mind my talking of him, do you?" the woman asked, presently. "You know after you go I shall never have any one again;" her voice wailed desolate with the last words so that its very sound caused Lassie's sobs to renew their force.