She sat stiller even as Willy rode in and called halloo to the house, while his mother and Molly, and even Celeste, came out. She hardly moved as he touched her hand and went past her with the others into the house, and left her there.
She did not know how long it was they came and went, Pete with the horse to the stable, Mrs. Leroy getting the boy his supper. The talk of the father and mother and son rose and fell within.
She heard them closing shutters, hunting lamps, and moving up the steps. But he came out and sat on the step near her, and yet far away.
They did not look toward each other. And yet he knew how she looked, fair, still, perhaps a little cold; and she knew how he looked, tanned and bronzed, yet good to see in his hunting clothes.
Shy as two young, wild things they sat, and wordless.
Presently he spoke, looking away from her.
“Mother wrote me you were going. I came up to say good-by. They’re to wait for me in camp.”
After that they both were silent, how long neither knew. Then the girl stood up.
“It must be late,” she said.
“Oh,” he said, “no—”