"Well, good-by," he said.
"Good-by," she replied. "And—you are not to come again, remember. There is nothing to be gained from another meeting between us. If—if you want money—I can send it to you."
He lifted his head rather proudly at the last suggestion.
"I do not want any," he said. "I am not low enough for that. I took the sum from you to go to France, because I hoped—in my infatuation—that I could make myself something that you would not despise. If I had wanted money I could have got thousands out of your father, and I could still, notwithstanding the pretence of those men that they wrote the signatures I saw him forge. No, I mean to give you back what I had from you, if ever I can compose my mind enough to go to work and earn it. I have no ambition. I stay in my mother's cabin, day after day, unable to make the least effort. Perhaps I can do something—in time."
The negro took a step away, and then turned, as if unable to go so abruptly.
"Good-by," he said, again.
"Good-by," answered Daisy, impassively. "I want to tell you, now I think of it, where I got that $1,000 I gave you. It was lent to me by the man you hated so, Mr. Roseleaf."
Hannibal did not seem to care for this information.
"He did not lend it for any good-will to me," he replied. "I have heard, by-the-way, that he did not mind losing you—this man for whom you spurned a heart that worshiped your very footprints. I believe some day I'll take a shot at him."