"Yes, they must be the last, unless just a snippy 'goodbye, very pleased to have met you,' as we leave the ship. I wish you the best luck. Shall I say 'Thine own wish, wish I thee'?" She spoke in a hard, bright tone, just poising like a bird on the wing, before flitting to her aunt.
"Don't forget me. Think of me sometimes," Loveland implored, as he wrung the little hand she held out. And perhaps never in his life had there been so much true feeling in his voice.
"I will think of you sometimes," she said, as if mechanically repeating the words.
"Try and think the best of me."
"Yes. I'll try to do that, too. Goodbye."
But he would not let her hand go. It seemed to him that he could not—although he knew he must. It was all he could do to keep back a plea that she would love him, that she would marry him, even though the crumbling walls of Loveland Castle fell. But instead he stammered, "Am I never to see you again? Can't you stop in New York for a few days, and let me call on—on you and your aunt—just to break the blow of parting?"
"No, we can't stop," she said. "We've been away from home too long already. We have lots to do. You know I work for my living."
"Those stories! Yes. But couldn't you write them in New York?"
"No, I couldn't, indeed. Aunt Barbara and I start for Louisville this afternoon. We live not far away."
"Mayn't I go with you to the train?"