"My mother tells me you are going away, Mildred, on a long journey and for a lengthened stay?" Mr. Lord remarked inquiringly, and with a regretful tone in his voice, as he shook hands with her after the weekly evening service.
He had been absent from town for a week or two.
"Yes," she returned gayly, putting aside with determination the thought of the partings that must wrench her heart at the last. "I am all ready, trunk packed and everything, and expect to start to-morrow morning."
"Ah, it's unfortunate. We shall miss you sadly. May I—"
But some one called to him from the other side of the room; he was obliged to turn away without finishing his sentence, and Wallace Ormsby seized the opportunity to step up and offer his arm to Mildred.
She accepted it and they walked on in silence till they were quite out of earshot of the rest of the congregation.
Then Wallace opened his lips to speak, but the words he wanted would not come; he could only stammer out a trite remark about the weather.
"Yes; it's beautiful," said Mildred. "I do hope it will last so, at least till we reach the Wabash. However, we go in a covered vehicle, and I suppose will not get wet even if it should rain."
"I wish you weren't going!" cried Wallace impetuously. "No, not that either; for I think, I hope, the journey will do you good: but—O Mildred, I cannot bear the thought that you may—that somebody else will win you away from me. I—I don't presume to say that I have any right, but I love you dearly, and always shall, and I do think I could make you happy if you only could return it," he went on speaking fast, now that he had found his tongue: "O Mildred, do you think you could?"
"I don't know, Wallace," she said, her voice trembling a little; "I have a very great respect and esteem for you, affection too," she added with some hesitation, and feeling the hot blood surge over her face at the words, "but I don't think it's quite the sort you want."