He looked at her curiously. “No man who loves you, Sara, is going to give you up very easily,” he averred. Then, after a moment: “you'll let me write to you sometimes?”
She nodded soberly.
“Yes—but not love-letters, Tim.”
“No—not love-letters.”
He lifted her hands and kissed first one and then the other. Then, with his head well up and his shoulders squared, he went away.
But the sea-blue eyes that had been wont to look out on the world so gaily had suddenly lost their care-free bravery. They were the eyes of a man who has looked for the first time into the radiant, sorrowful face of Love, and read therein all the possibilities—the glory and the pain and the supreme happiness—which Love holds.
And Sara, standing alone and regretful that the friend had been lost in the lover, never guessed that Tim's love was a thread which was destined to cross and re-cross those other threads held by the fingers of Fate until it had tangled the whole fabric of her life.