They did not exchange words on that return journey; he was too angry—too indignant; she was praying that she might reach home safely—that she might not be too heavily punished for her sin.
At last the train reached Oakton. There were few people at the station. She gave up the ticket to the official, who little guessed who she was.
"Thank Heaven," she said, with quivering lips. The next minute she was on the road that led to the woods. Claude followed her.
"We will say good-by here, Claude," she said, holding out her hand to him.
"And you were to have been my wife before noon!" he cried. "How cold, how heartless women are!"
"You should not have persuaded me," she said, with gentle dignity. "You blinded me by talking of the romance. I forgot to think of the right and wrong. But I will not reproach you. Good-by."
He held her hand one minute; all the love he had felt for her seemed to rise and overwhelm him—his face grew white with the pain of parting from her.
"You know that this good-by is forever," he said sadly; "you know that we who were to have been all in all to each other, who were to have been married by noon, will now in all probability never meet again."
"Better that than an elopement," she returned "Good-by, Claude."
He bent down and kissed her white brow; and then, without another word, she broke from him, and hastened away, while he, strong man as he was, lay sobbing on the grass.