“Was it all right when you got in last night?”
“Yes; I said good-bye for you.”
“Oh! Noel—I've been afraid—I oughtn't—I oughtn't—”
“Yes, yes; nothing can take you from me now.”
“You have got pluck. More than!”
Along whistle sounded. Morland grasped her hands convulsively:
“Good-bye, my little wife! Don't fret. Goodbye! I must go. God bless you, Noel!”
“I love you.”
They looked at each other, just another moment, then she took her hands from his and stood back in the shadow of the milk-cans, rigid, following him with her eyes till he was lost in the train.
Every carriage window was full of those brown figures and red-brown faces, hands were waving vaguely, voices calling vaguely, here and there one cheered; someone leaning far out started to sing: “If auld acquaintance—” But Noel stood quite still in the shadow of the milk-cans, her lips drawn in, her hands hard clenched in front of her; and young Morland at his window gazed back at her.