He paused a moment, glancing up the narrow pond to where it ended in shadow, and then continued: “It’s curis, Abby, how life begins with how-de-do’s ’n’ smilin’ friends ’n’ cheerin’ prospects, ’n’ then ends with good-byes ’n’ bein’ forgot. It’s what we must callate on, though, an’ a good deal like a graveyard is left to weeds and bushes.”
Once more he paused, closed his eyes, and remained silent for a time.
“Wal, I might as well be goin’,” he said finally, rising and extending his hand, “so good-bye, Abby. I wish ye well in life.”
“But is there any need of it?” she answered, turning her face to hide the tears as his hand clasped hers.
“Why, no, only to fergit my sorrer,” he answered; “I can’t do it here.”
“But who will care for you there–at last–and–must you go?” Then she turned to him again.
And then he saw, not the gentle, saddened face upraised to his, but the tender face of sweet Abby Grey of the long, long ago.
“Must you leave us–me?” she whispered once again.
“Wal, mebbe not,” he answered.
THE END