"Laurence!" she said, "in a few hours"—and stopped.
He ended for her.
"In a few hours I shall be on my way to New York."
She looked down at her flowers and then up at him.
"Oh!" she said, "a great deal will go with you. There is no one now who could take from me what you will. But that is not what I wanted to say to you. Will you let me say to you what I have been thinking of for several days, and wanting to say?"
"You may say anything," he answered.
"Perhaps," she went on, hurriedly, "it will not make any difference when it is said; I don't know." She put out her hand and touched his arm with it; her eyes looked large and bright in their earnest appeal.
"Don't be angry with me, Larry," she said; "we have been such good friends,—the best, best friends. I am going home soon. I shall not stay until the evening is over. You must, I think, until every one is gone away. You might—you might have a few last words to say to Agnes."
"There is nothing," he replied, "that I could say to her."
"There might be," she said tremulously, "there might be—a few last words Agnes might wish to say to you."