After the midday meal, John, too restless to stay indoors, strolled forth into the hazy sunshine, trying to still the hungry longing at his heart.
Back of Mrs. Forrest’s cabin a drooping elm threw its shadow over the brown grass and plumy golden-rod beneath. On a little cushion of rootlets sat Anne, resting her cheek on her hand and gazing away over the James. She was so deeply absorbed in thought, that the crackling of dried twigs under John’s feet did not disturb her.
“Anne, are you sorry?”
With a start she looked up at him. No answer came from her lips. Lower and lower bent her head over her hands as she twisted and untwisted her fingers in an effort at self-control. The sunshine, shimmering through the trees, sought out the gold in the chestnut curls escaping from beneath her cap.
“You have not answered me, Anne.”
Sob after sob shook her little body, but no words came. The sight was too much for John, who had all a man’s horror of tears. Sitting down beside her, he took one of her little hands in his; it no longer resisted his pressure.
“Will the words not come? Then, little one, if you really care, put your head here on my heart.”
With an impulsive movement Anne buried her head in his breast, and as she wept away the follies of childhood, her woman’s heart acknowledged its love.
“How long are you going to keep me waiting, Anne?”
“Whenever you want me, John, I will come.”