"But you know what that means," answered Amy. "I will be forced to give up my church work and be a useless butterfly again; and besides, the conditions father insists upon—." She blushed and hesitated.
"Yes," said Dick, "I know what it means for me, your going home. But you need not again be a useless butterfly as you say. Write your father and tell him of your desire; that you cannot be content as a useless woman of society. He will ask you to come home, I am sure. And when your present term of school is finished, you can take your old place in the world again. You will find many ways to be of use to others, and I know that your father will learn to give you more liberty."
"And the past?" asked Amy, with a blush of shame.
"Is past," said Dick, emphatically. "No one in Boyd City knows your story, nor need they ever know."
"One man there can tell them," answered the girl, with averted face.
"You are mistaken," said Dick, quietly. And then, as gently as he could, he told her of Whitley's death. But of his connection with him and the real cause of the fight in the cabin, he said nothing.
It was hard for Dick to advise Amy to go home, for as she was then, they were equals. If she went back to Boyd City, all would be changed. But he had fought over the question in his own mind and the right had conquered.
Amy agreed with him that it was best, and added, "I have felt all along that I ought to do this after a while, but I wished to see you again first, and had you not happened to find me, I should have written to you later."
And so it was settled. No word of love was spoken between them. Dick would not permit himself to speak then, because he felt that she ought not to be influenced by her present surroundings; and even had he spoken, Amy would not have listened, because she felt her work could only be complete when she had returned to her old position and had proved herself by her life there.
And so they parted, with only a silent clasping of hands, as they stood beside the brook that chattered on its way to join the other; though there was a world of love in both the gray eyes and the brown; a love none the less strong because unspoken.