Lucina made no reply. The path narrowed just there and gave her an excuse for quitting Jerome's arm. She did so with a gentle murmur of explanation, for she could do nothing abruptly, then went on before him swiftly. Her white shawl hung from her head to her waist in sharp slants. She moved through the dusk with the evanescent flit of a white moth.
“Of course,” stammered Jerome, painfully and boyishly, “I—knew—you would not care if—I did not come. It was not as if—I had thought you—would.”
Lucina said nothing to that either. Jerome thought miserably that she did not hear, or, hearing, agreed with what he said.
Soon, however, Lucina spoke, without turning her head. “I can understand,” said she, with the gentlest and yet the most complete dignity, for she spoke from her goodness of heart, “that a person has often to do what he thinks best, and not explain it to any other person, because it is between him and his own conscience. I am quite sure that you had some very good reason for not coming to see me that Sunday night, and you need not tell me what it was. I am very glad that you did not, as I feared, stay away because I had not treated you with courtesy. Now, we will say no more about it.” With that, the path being a little wider, she came to his side again, and looked up in his face with the most innocent friendliness and forgiveness in hers.
Jerome could have gone down at her feet and worshipped her.
“What a beautiful night it is!” said Lucina, tilting her face up towards the stars.
“Beautiful!” said Jerome, looking at her, breathlessly.
“I never saw the stars so thick,” said she, musingly. “Everybody has his own star, you know. I wonder which my star is, and yours. Did you ever think of it?”
“I guess my star isn't there,” said Jerome.
“Why, yes,” cried Lucina, earnestly, “it must be!”