"Are you going to the city to-morrow?"
"Yes."
"May I call on you this evening?"
"Certainly. Bring Amy with you, won't you?"
"Will you forgive me if I come alone?"
"I'll try to. I suppose Amy will be tired from nutting."
He did not reply, but lifted his hat gravely, mounted his horse, and galloped away as if he were an aid bearing a message that might avert a battle.
Miss Hargrove hastened to her room, and took off her hat with trembling hands. Burt's pale, resolute face told her that the crisis in her life had come. And yet she did not fully understand him. If he meant to speak, why had he not done so? why had he not asked permission to consult her father?
Mr. Hargrove, from his library window, saw Burt's formal parting, and concluded that his fears or hopes—he scarcely knew which were uppermost, so deep was his love for his daughter, and so painful would it be to see her unhappy—were not to be fulfilled. By a great effort Gertrude appeared not very distraite at dinner, nor did she mention Burt, except in a casual manner, in reply to a question from her mother, but her father thought he detected a strong and suppressed excitement.
She excused herself early from the table, and said she must finish packing for her departure.