She looked up at him, and then her eyes fell. The mingled adoration and hunger and dismay written plainly in the Lad's frank eyes were impossible to misunderstand. She had seen that look there before many times in the past winter. She had been afraid of it then, and she had run away from his good-bye that snowy day when he had left Algonquin. For then she had not wanted to see that look in the eyes of any man. She had seen it once before and had yielded to its spell, and the love-light had died out and left her life desolate. But since she had last talked with Roderick McRae, she had seen those eyes again, lit with the old love, and to her amazement she had found no answer in her heart. She had far outgrown Dick Wells in her self-forgetful life she had taken up in Algonquin. She had taken up the burdens of others just to ease her own pain, promising herself that when this or that task was finished she could turn to her own grief and nurse it. But the self-indulgence had been so long postponed that when the opportunity came and she had gone back to her old sorrow, behold it was gone. And in its place sat the memory of Roderick McRae's unspoken devotion, his chivalrous silent waiting for his opportunity.
So when poor Roderick all unschooled in hiding his feelings let her see in one swift glance all that her going meant to him she was speechless before the joy of it. She stooped and trailed her fingers in the green water, to hide her happy confusion. Then remembering she was leaving him under a misunderstanding she glanced up at him swiftly.
"I don't," she said breathlessly, "I didn't mean I was going away to stay. I meant only for the summer holidays."
The transformation of his countenance was a further revelation, had she needed any.
"Oh," he said, and then paused. "Oh, I'm so glad!" Very simple words but they contained volumes. He was silent for a moment unable to say any more, and she filled in the awkward pause nervously, scarcely knowing what she said.
"You were sorry too, were you not, when you went away?"
"It was the hardest task I ever met in my life," said Roderick. "And you didn't let me say good-bye to you." He was growing quite reckless now to speak thus to a young lady who might be going to announce her engagement.
She had not gained anything by her headlong plunge into conversation so she tried again.
"Not even your operation?" she asked. "That was worse, wasn't it?"
"My operation wasn't hard," said Roderick dreamily, his mind going back to the sacred wonder of that hour. "No, I had—help." He said it hesitatingly. It was hard to mention that event, even to her. He had spoken of it to no living person but his father.