He was once more in the grip of the dream which he had dreamed as he had sat with Mary's letter in his hand on Cousin Patty's porch. If she would come to him there would be no more loneliness. His love should fill her life, and there would be, too, the love of his people. She should win hearts while he won souls. If only she would care enough to come.
It was the fear that she might not care which suddenly gripped him. Surely this was not the moment to press his demands upon her—when sorrow lay so heavily on her heart.
So blind, and cruel in his blindness, he held back the words which rose to his lips.
"Some day life will bring the things which belong to you," he said at last. "I pray God that it may bring them to you some day."
A line of Browning's came into her mind, and rang like a knell—"Some day, meaning no day."
She shivered and rose. "We must go in; there's rain in those clouds, and wind."
He rose also and stood looking down at her. Her eyes came up to his, her clear eyes, shadowed now by pain. What he might have said to her in another moment would have saved both of them much weariness and heartache. But he was not to say it, for the storm was upon them driving them before it, slamming doors, banging shutters in the big house as they came to it—a miniature cyclone, in its swift descent.
And as if he had ridden in on the wings of the storm came Porter Bigelow, his red mane blown like a flame back from his face, his long coat flapping.
He stopped short at the sight of Roger.
"Hello, Poole," he said; "when did you arrive?"