"No," said she.
"And we can't walk any more or—or——" Bobby felt the lump rising in his throat.
"No," said Celia.
Bobby swallowed hard.
"Are—are you sorry?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Celia quietly. "Are you?"
"I don't know what I'm going to do!" cried Bobby desperately.
After a little, the main fact of the catastrophe being accepted, they talked of the winter to come.
"You'll write me some letters, won't you?" pleaded Bobby.
"If you write to me."