"Oh, Homer!" she cried, "I would be lost indeed then. Oh, no! I could not bear to have you forget me."
His face lighted in the dusk with a happiness that had long been a stranger—a chastened light, perhaps, when compared with the radiance evoked by his first love, but a steadier flame, lit in the heart, not in the eyes alone.
"Well, I will think it all out, Myron; to-morrow will surely find me with a way planned for you. I wish, indeed, that I too could go with you, that I also could find a road out of Jamestown."
He said good-night, and turned to go. He was almost at the gate when she ran after him.
"Wait a moment, Homer," she called softly; "wait!"
He turned quickly.
"You know how I think of you?" she asked. "You know you are my only friend—my dear friend—my brother? You know this? Do you think that going away from Jamestown will make up for not seeing you? I am afraid—I—I—I think, Homer, I will stay."
Homer gave a little laugh, so sweet these words were to him.
"My dear, you shall go away, and yet shall see me too, sometimes. I could not stand it to be without a sight of My and you now and then."
She clasped her hands.