"Yes, I did—and that may explain why he's reading the life of Lincoln. Maybe he's trying to imitate Lincoln."
"Imitate Lincoln——"
The sound of her voice as she said these words I think will never go quite out of my memory: it was so soft and deep, so tremulous.
And then something happened that I cannot fully explain, nor think of without a thrill. Anthy turned quickly toward me, looked at me through shiny tears, and put her head quickly and impulsively down upon my shoulder.
"Oh, David," she said, "I love you!"
But I knew well what she meant. It was that great moment in a woman's life when in loving the loved one she loves all the world. She was not thinking that moment of me, dear though I might have been to her as a friend, but of Nort—of Nort.
It was only a moment, and then she leaned quickly back, looking at me with starry eyes and a curious trembling lift of the lips.
Fergus stuck his small battered volume of Robert Burns's poems in his pocket—and going out of the back door struck out for the hills