“Of course. Bless you, Mary! I—I can't talk any more now. You'll—” with an attempt at a smile—“you'll have to give me a little time to get my bearings, as your Uncle Shad would say.”
“And—and won't you go back to your father? I shall feel so much happier if you do.”
He hesitated. Then he nodded.
“If you wish it—yes,” he said. “I suppose it is the thing I ought to do. Dad will be happy, at any rate. Oh, Mary, CAN'T you?”
“No, Crawford, no. Yes, your father will be happy. And—and by and by you will be, too, I know. Are you going?”
“Yes, I think I had better. I don't feel like meeting anyone and your Uncle Shad will be here soon, I suppose. Your man here—Isaiah—told me of Mr. Hamilton's sickness. I'm sorry.”
“Yes, poor Uncle Zoeth! He is gaining a little, however. Crawford, I won't ask you to stay. Perhaps it will be best for both of us if you do not. But won't you write me just once more? Just to tell me that you and your father are reconciled? I should like to know that. And do forgive me—Oh, do! I HAD to say it, Crawford!”
“I forgive you, Mary. Of course you had to say it. . . . But . . . Well, never mind. Yes, I'll write, of course. I hope . . . No, I can't say that, not now. I'd better go at once, I think, before I . . . Good-by.”
He seized her hand, pressed it tightly, took his hat from the table and his bag from the floor and swung out of the door. In the doorway she stood looking after him. At the gate he turned, waved his hand, and hurried on. He did not look back again.
When at half-past six Captain Shadrach, having left Annabel and the boy in charge of the store, came home for supper, Isaiah had some news to tell him. It was surprising news.