The breeze had risen; it gathered force; it was a chill wind, and there rose a wailing on the prairie. Drops of rain began to fall.
“You will not think a question implied in this,” he said more composedly, and with an unhappy laugh at himself. “I believe you will not think me capable of asking you if you care——”
“No,” she answered; “I—I do not love you.”
“Ah! Was it a question, after all? I—you read me better than I do, perhaps—but if I asked, I knew the answer.”
She made as if to speak again, but words refused her.
After a moment, “Good-by,” he said, very steadily. “I thank you for the charity that has given me this little time with you—it will always be—precious to me—I shall always be your servant.” His steadiness did not carry him to the end of his sentence. “Good-by.”
She started toward him and stopped, without his seeing her. She answered nothing; but stretched out her hand to him and then let it fall quickly.
“Good-by,” he said again. “I shall go out the orchard gate. Please tell them good-night for me. Won't you speak to me? Good-by.”
He stood waiting while the rising wind blew their garments about them. She leaned against the wall of the house. “Won't you say good-by and tell me you can forget my——”
She did not speak.