“Do you remember that day?”
“When we picked out our farm—where was it?”
“Wasn’t it over there?”
“Yes,” he said. “We could come and live here when we are old.” He knew he was but seeking to console himself for what now could not be. “And there is the old town,” he said. “It looks beautiful from here, nestling among those trees, it seems peaceful, and calm, and simple. But it is different when you are in it; for there are gossip and envy and spite, and I can never quite forgive it because it had no place for me. Well,” he went on defiantly, in the relief he had been able to make for himself out of his immature reading of Macochee’s character; “I don’t need it any more; it is little and narrow and provincial, and the real life is to be lived out in the larger world. It’s a hard fight, but it’s worth it.”
“Don’t you regret leaving it?” asked Lavinia, in a voice that was tenderer than Marley had ever known it. Marley looked at Macochee and then he looked at her.
“I regret leaving it, dear heart, because I must leave you behind in it.”
“Would you never care to come back if it were not for me?” she asked.
“I might,” he admitted, “when we are old. We could come back here then and settle down on our farm over there.” He pointed.
“I’m half-afraid of the city,” Lavinia said.
He turned and took her in his arms.