“Why do I talk like that?” he said bitterly. “Because I am a weak fool, I suppose. Look there.”
He pointed down the glen.
“Chris!”
“There, run after them, and play propriety, little lady,” he said bitterly. “Or no—they do not miss you; better stop behind, or shall I see you home?”
“Chris, dear Chris,” she whispered.
“Don’t talk to me,” he cried. “I’m half mad. Good-bye, Mary, good-bye.”
He turned sharply and hurried away up the glen, and as Mary watched, she heard his reel begin to sing as he walked on down by the stream, making casts blindly among the boulders.
“Poor fellow,” she said, as she turned and walked swiftly away. “I wish I had not said a word.”
She gave one more glance back and hurried after the retreating pair. Had she looked long enough she would have seen Chris Lisle stride into the first clump of trees and throw himself down with his face buried in his arms, and there he was lying still long after darkness had come on, and the stars were peering down and glistening in the rushing stream.