“It’s to Brenton, Maine, she’s gone.”
Don grabbed the paper.
“Thanks.”
He was halfway down the steps when she called after him:––
“Good luck to ye, sir.”
“Thanks again,” he called back.
Then he gave his order to the driver:––
“To the Grand Central.”
Don found that he could take the midnight train to Boston and connect there with a ten-o’clock train next morning. This would get him into Portland in time for a connection that would land him at Brenton at four that afternoon. He went back to the house to pack his bag. As he opened the door and went in, it seemed as if she might already be there––as if she might be waiting for him. Had she stepped forward to greet him and announce that dinner was ready, he would not have been greatly surprised. It was as if she had been here all this last year. But it was only Nora who came to greet him.