"I do not know. It is a problem I am not going to consider very seriously for at least a month. Of course I shall leave Port Agnew, but before I do, I shall have to make some clothes for baby and myself."
"I told my father I would give him a definite answer regarding you in a month, Nan. I'm going up in the woods and battle this thing out by myself."
"Please go home and give him a definite answer to-night. You have not the right to make him suffer so," she pleaded.
"I'm not prepared to-night to abandon you, Nan. I must have some time to get inured to the prospect."
"Did you come over to-night to tell me good-by before going back to the woods, Donald?"
He nodded, and deliberately she kissed him with great tenderness.
"Then—good-by, sweetheart," she whispered. "In our case, the least said is soonest mended. And please do not write to me. Keep me out of your thoughts for a month, and perhaps I'll stay out."
"No hope," he answered, with a lugubrious smile. "However, I'll be as good as I can. And I'll not write. But—when I return from that month of exile, do not be surprised if I appear to claim you for good or for evil, for better or for worse."
She kissed him again—hurriedly—and pressed him gently from her, as if his persistence gave her cause for apprehension.
"Dear old booby!" she murmured. "Run along home now, won't you, please?"