"It is very beautiful—but I think very delicate," observed Edina, speaking of a new specimen of fern just planted, which they were both looking at. "Do you think it will live?"
George Atkinson passed his fingers under the small leaf, and somehow they met Edina's. He did not appear to notice the momentary contact; her pulses thrilled at it.
"Oh yes, it will live and flourish," he answered. "In six months' time you will see what it will be."
"You may see," she said, smiling. "It will be a great many more months than six, I suppose, before I am here again. Perhaps it may be years."
"Indeed, Edina, you are more likely to be here in six months' time than I am. But for my mother's death and my father's failing health, I should have left before this."
"But you will return?" said Edina.
"Some time I may do so. I cannot answer for it.
"What do you mean, George?"
"Not very much," he answered, with a grave and kindly smile in his dark grey eyes. "An idea crosses my mind now and then, that when once I am in those genial lands, where the skies are blue and the winds temperate, I shall be in no hurry to quit them again. Of course I don't say that I shall remain there for life; but—it might happen so."
A pang, sharp as a two-edged sword, struck Edina. "What, and abandon your country for ever, and—and home ties?"