“I’ll try,” said Isabelle; “but I’d rather die than leave here.”
“Thee has met life very squarely, so far as I have known thee. This is a test of thy quality, and I know thee will meet it like my true daughter.”
The girl’s eyes brimmed at that, but she looked off over the hills and merely nodded. Presently she rose and leaned her cheek for a second against Mrs. Benjamin’s hair.
“It’s all right, mother Benjamin,” she said, with the old ring in her voice.
The subject was not mentioned again. Save for a somewhat closer affection, a tenderer devotion on Isabelle’s part, no one would have known that they were facing a separation, which was an agony of dread to the girl. As Mr. Benjamin had said, of his wisdom: “Sorrow strikes so deep at that age.”
She took her part in the duties and pleasures of the days. But the Benjamins’ loving eyes marked a change. She brought no yeoman’s appetite to the table, she had to be urged to eat. The morning often brought her downstairs with dark circles about her eyes.
“Did thee sleep, dear child?”
“Oh, yes, thanks,” was the invariable answer.
“She’s getting all eyes again,” grumbled Mr. Benjamin.
Not until the very last day were the two other girls told of her coming departure. The last days were packed to the brim with duties, so that she might have no leisure to be sad. She put up a plucky fight; not a tear had she shed. But on the last day, when the clear bugle call roused her, she sprang from her bed, and ran to the window. Nature was at her painting again; splashes of red and yellow and russet brown streaked the hills. A sort of delicate mist enfolded them. Was it only a year ago that she had looked at these blessed hills for the first time? Again father Benjamin’s salute to the day rang out. She leaned her head against the window, and her body shook with sobs, though no tears came.