'Darling,' she said, dropping beside him, 'don't mind, don't mind. The letter is not posted yet—Bartie was going to take it in this afternoon. It is not mail day till to-morrow. We will not send it.'
Not posted! Not posted! She was not coming—she might not know of his extremity, his need for her! The chill wind passed over him and dried his tears, dried his heart.
'Here is the letter,' the poor child cried; 'don't look like that, darling. I would not vex you for the world. Shall I tear it up?'
He looked at it piteously. Oh, that Bartie had it, riding with it through the bush, summoning her, summoning her!
'Shall I burn it?' said the poor little girl.
'Yes,' he said, 'burn it.' His voice was lifeless, his eyes stared dully at the wall.
CHAPTER VIII
An Atheist
'Thou hast made them equal unto us, which have borne the burden and heat of the day.'
Hermie put her letter and all hopes of rescue together into the kitchen fire.