He did not turn or answer, but stood with his hand on the metal rope that protected the quarry’s ledge, looking down. Her eyes followed his, and then brought up on the schooner bearing away on its long tack, strained and careening in the breeze that, down there in the open, blew fresh and strong from the great Pacific.
“It’s a schooner,” she said absently. “Where do you suppose it’s going?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere a long way off, I hope. My devils are sailing away on it.”
They stood side by side, gazing down at it till she moved away with a sudden “Good-by.”
“Good-by,” he answered, and stretched out his hand.
But she was already some feet in advance and had begun to move quickly.
“Good-by, Rose,” he cried after her, with something in his voice of the wistful urgency in a child’s when it is left behind.
“Good-by,” she called over her shoulder without looking back. “Good-by.”
He followed her with his eyes till she disappeared round the bend of the path, then turned back and again dropped his glance to the schooner.
He stood watching it till it passed out of sight beneath the shoulder of the hill, straining and striving like a wild, free creature in its forward rush for the sea.