“That’s what you said—” began Hiram eagerly, and then cleared his throat and stammered. “My mother—yes, she used to say they was like butterflies, just swayin’ on the stem, and ready to fly.”
Betsy met his eyes as he stood apart, his stalwart figure uneasily moving, now toward her and then away, in his eager embarrassment. Something in her look drew him close to the seat.
“There ain’t any train for an hour yet,” he said gently. “I s’pose you took a bite, but you’ll have breakfast with me, won’t you, Betsy, ’fore I take ye over to the depot? I s’pose you’re leavin’ again.”
“Yes.”
She said it gravely, and dropped her eyes from his kind face.
“For how long this time?”
“Forever.”
The word was spoken quietly; but her lips quivered.
“What?” The man started, and frowned.
