"Are you going for long, then?" Betty asked, feeling a sudden lonesomeness coming over her.
"I don't know. The truth is, Betty, I am nearly strong, but I find myself so continually lost in a painful effort at thinking,—I'm trying to remember something—I don't know what,—but it worries me, until I almost cry with disappointment. George says it is my nerves, and if he does not take me away directly, he fears I will be ill again."
Betty took her hands lovingly.
"Perhaps it is best. Dr. Cadman always knows best," she said with a slight flush. "You must write to me often, dear, and let me know directly you return."
That night George took Betty home. When they reached the door, he said,
"I will not come in, for I have much to prepare for the trip."
"I hope it will benefit you all," returned Betty, suddenly realizing that their going was a new trial to her.
"I expect great things to happen before I see you again," he said earnestly, "It would not be honorable for me to even mention my plans, but"—he stopped abruptly, and held out his hand "Good-bye," he said, gravely.
"Good-bye," she said, trembling.
He held her hand for a moment; then, dropping it slowly, he reached over and rang the bell.