"It must be Bernal," he said—"he was to leave about this time."
"I can't see him again."
"Just this once, dear—for my sake! Come!"
Bernal stood in the doorway, hat in hand, his bag at his feet. With his hat he held a letter. Allan went forward to meet him. Nancy stood up to study the lines of an etching on the wall.
"I've come to say good-bye, you know." She heard the miserable embarrassment of his tones, and knew, though she did not glance at him, that there was a shameful droop to his whole figure.
Allan shook hands with him, first taking the letter he held.
"Good-bye—old chap—God bless you!"
He muttered, with that wretched consciousness of guilt, something about being sorry to go.
"And I don't want to preach, old chap," continued Allan, giving the hand a farewell grip, "but remember there are always two pairs of arms that will never be shut to you, the arms of the Church of Him who died to save us,—and my own poor arms, hardly less loving."
"Thank you, old boy—I'll go back to Hoover"— he looked hesitatingly at the profile of Nancy—"Hoover thinks it's all rather droll, you know—Good-bye, old boy! Good-bye, Nancy."