They walked down to the gate together in silence.
"Good-by," said John, holding out his hand; "you will give me yours or not as you choose, but I will not have it as a favor."
She gave it.
"I hope that life will grow brighter to you as the years pass. May God bless you!"
He dropped her hand; she turned, and passed through the gateway; then he sprang after her.
"Nothing can change you," he said; "I know it, I have known it all along; you are part of your country, part of the time, part of the bitter hour through which she is passing. Nothing can change you; if it could, you would not be what you are, and I should not—But you can not change. Good-by, Bettina, poor little child—good-by. Follow your path out into the world. Yet do not think, dear, that I have not seen—have not understood."
He bent and kissed her hand; then he was gone, and she went on alone.
A week later the keeper strolled over toward the old house. It was twilight, but the new owner was still at work. He was one of those sandy-haired, energetic Maine men, who, probably on the principle of extremes, were often found through the South, making new homes for themselves in the pleasant land.
"Pulling down the old house, are you?" said the keeper, leaning idly on the gate, which was already flanked by a new fence.
"Yes," replied the Maine man, pausing; "it was only an old shell, just ready to tumble on our heads. You're the keeper over yonder, an't you?" (He already knew everybody within a circle of five miles.)