"Nay, nay, you shall not," he answered in an altered tone, half of raillery, half of tenderness; "you are coming with us—with Greta and me—and over there the roses will bloom again in your white cheeks."
Mrs. Ritson shook her head.
"I shall soon leave you, dearest," she repeated, and told her beads.
He tried to dispel her sadness; he laughed, and she smiled feebly; he patted her head playfully. But she came back to the same words: "I shall soon leave you."
The moon was shining at the full when he lifted his hat to go. It was sailing through a sky of fibrous cloud. The wind was high, and rattled the empty boughs of the tree against the window. Keen frost was in the air.
"I shall see my father's old friend in London on Monday, and be back on Wednesday. Good-bye. Keep a good heart. Good-bye."
She wept on his breast and clung to him.
"Good-bye, good-bye!" he repeated, and triad to disengage himself from her embrace.
But she clung closer. It was as if she was to see him no more.
"Good-bye!" she sobbed, and with the tears in his own eyes he laughed at her idle fears.