“Oh, yes. Please do not talk—not to-day.”
“No. Only this”—he looked at her, and saw her seem to shrink—“thank you for what you have done,” he said simply.
She took tenderly the hand he stretched to her; and upon these terms they set to work at cribbage. She won, and won again, and the third time laid down her cards and reproached him with playing in order to lose.
“No,” he said, and his eye wandered to the boxes. “But my thoughts get away from me. I'll be strong enough to hold them on the cyards next time, I reckon.”
Many tones in his voice she had heard, but never the tone of sadness until to-day.
Then they played a little more, and she put away the board for this first time.
“You are going now?” he asked.
“When I have made this room look a little less forlorn. They haven't wanted to meddle with my things, I suppose.” And Molly stooped once again among the chattels destined for Vermont. Out they came; again the bearskin was spread on the floor, various possessions and ornaments went back into their ancient niches, the shelves grew comfortable with books, and, last, some flowers were stood on the table.
“More like old times,” said the Virginian, but sadly.
“It's too bad,” said Molly, “you had to be brought into such a looking place.”