But he had still cherished the idea that somehow, in some way, they might never come together again; that the Britisher, believing Dorothy to have no love for him, might sail away to England without her, should the fortune of war spare him to do this.
He also reckoned—hoped, rather—that the girl was so young as to recover from any sentiment this stranger might have awakened within her heart.
But now, in the light of what had come about and was soon to be, all hope was dead for him. The sight of the face and form he had never loved so well as now,—when she seemed so sweet and so lovable in her newly acquired womanliness—all this was unnerving him.
With these thoughts whirling through his brain, he stood looking at her, while he forced such an unnatural laugh as made her glance at him nervously and draw herself away.
"I'm not like to see the old town for many a long day, I fear," he managed to say, his voice growing less strained as he saw the wondering look in her dark eyes; "and as for Polly Chine, you must find one more suited to my taste before you 've cause to wish me what I now wish you with all my heart."
With this he turned hastily away, and his mother asked, "You are going to get ready to start for Cambridge, child?"
"Yes," replied Dorothy, "I must leave at once."
"And can I do aught to help?" the good woman inquired.
Upon being assured that she could not, she cheerily bade the girl make haste, and to remember that she was expected to return the next day.
"I shall miss the child sorely," she said, as the click of Dorothy's little heels died away on the floor above.