She sighed and crumpled up a little and entered the cave alone. For awhile there came no sound from within, but I dared not look to see what she was doing. Then she began to move around.
“Oh, the poor little branches!” She was half-whispering to herself. “All withered up and dead, all gone from their pretty little trees. Poor, poor little leaves. And they looked so bright and hopeful once, and now they’re gray and dead. And the moss is drying. The soft, pretty moss! All turned hard and dry. What a pity! What a little, little pity!”
She was silent for awhile. I peered in and saw her on her knees, her hands tenderly stroking the withered moss with which we had carpeted the cave.
“Good-by, little cave,” she whispered. “By-by.”
She did not come out at once. There was a moment during which I turned my back on the cave, not daring to look in, and the only motion and sound in the world was that of the young Summer breeze stirring through the age-old scene.
“Mr. Pitt—, Gardy.” She was only whispering, yet her voice was strong enough to reach forth and sway me where I stood. I did not reply. The fight was going against me. Flight would have saved me, yet I would not fly. But if I trusted myself to speak, I would be lost.
“Aren’t you going to bid our cave good-by?”
I took a step away. I should have taken many; for I felt then that right and safety prescribed that I step out of the lives of Betty and George, promptly and forever.
And seconds passed, seconds that seemed minutes, and I hoped that she would not speak again.
Presently she was standing behind me. I knew it, though I had not heard or seen her come. Straight ahead I looked, out over the bay, denying the force that urged me to do otherwise.