“But what shall I do, with nobody to understand me? And, besides this, John Bonyton who goes away will not be the John Bonyton that comes back.”
“Why not, little Hope?”
“Why not? How can you ask, when nothing is to-day what it was yesterday?”
He made the usual protestations of never-changing devotion, which she broke short with her old impetuosity, waving her hand for him to be silent, when a twig snapped near by, and John Bonyton sprung to his feet.
“It is Acashee,” said Hope, coldly. “She is always in your path.”
Again all was silent save the wood-robin, which sung upon a branch overhead, and Hope resumed:
“Do not go, John Bonyton. Do not enter the ship that will bear you away, for I shall never see you again. You may come back—but my John Bonyton will return no more.”
The youth smiled fondly, for Hope had never before shown him such favor. The mournful tenderness of her looks and words thrilled him with rapture, and he replied:
“I shall return ten times more worthy of you, Hope.”