Ben drew nearer to his friend.
“Dear old man,” he said, “take heart again. She was home-sick perhaps, and all the home-longings came leaping out. She could not have meant to be hard. She will bitterly regret her words, and all will be well between you again. You will forgive her, and the wound will be healed.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Robert said quietly. “I don’t blame her at all, but I blame myself bitterly, bitterly.”
“But I blame her,” said Ben, fiercely, “and face to face I shall tell her so.”
“The only thing I have against her is that she has not cared in the very least for me,” Robert said, “and words cannot mend that, Ben.”
He leaned back wearily in the chair, looking almost as though he had ceased to be of this world. The silence was broken only by the note of the mocking-bird, and the noise of the brown mare knocking impatiently against the stall.
“She must go home to the life which she gave up for me,” Robert said, after a long pause. “I don’t want her sacrifices: they are not worth anything to me. I think I have enough money left for her passage, and if not, I know you will help me out. I must give her her freedom at once.”
He rose abruptly, but sank back with a groan, his hand to his heart.
“‘BEN,’ HE MURMURED, ‘WE MUST—’ HE FAINTED AWAY.”