"You've filled the place he should have filled!"
Shelby was silent, goaded to torture by the lapse of precious minutes.
"There's only blackness ahead!"
"Don't take the dark view," entreated Shelby, groping desperately for a bright one. "The man can't live always—so much older than you—and then—your life's your own—"
The bowed figure shuddered.
"It's a dreadful thing to do—but I've thought that, too. I can't help it. You—you are the real one—the real one—" She waited.
"Yes." It was screwed from him.
"The real one—and if—I know I don't need your promise—but if—"
"Yes, yes; of course if—"
Neither of them would name the contingency. Shelby contrived a leave-taking, and bounded down the terraced slopes. It was quite noon when he reached the Tuscarora House, but without a thought of food, he got his horse and buggy from the livery, speeding the harnessing with his own hands, and whipped away for Little Poland.