It seemed strange that such a storm could pass, and leave no deeper traces behind.
Over my life, too, a storm had come last night, but it was followed by no sunny morning. I was quieter, however, for my mind was made up. Weary with much thinking I put off until the afternoon that which I felt I ought to say to Hildred.
She, and Clifford's two boys, Robin and Walter, walked home together after church, and little Jock and Phillis were with me. As we passed under the yew tree, I asked Hildred to stay with me for a few minutes. The children went on, and Hildred and I were both silent, listening to their merry voices as they died away. I did not know what to say first.—At last I asked her abruptly, if she remembered how Cuthbert bade her good-bye here.
She said yes, she remembered it quite well.
I took her hand and said—I know my voice was trembling—'You have not forgotten him!'
'Oh no,' she answered; 'poor Cuthbert!'
'Sister!'—I had never called her by that name before—'when he went away he left you to me to take care of, and he asked me to talk about him to you, that you never might forget him. We have not spoken of him lately as often as we used, but it has not made any difference. If he were to come back he would find us just the same.'
She was silent.
'Eh, Hildred?'
'I shall always remember him,' she said in a low voice.