The evening passed away as it might with two strangers, and he rose to go, with a grave face and manner as cold as mine,—for I had been very cold. I followed him to the door, and asked how long he stayed at Huntsville.
Only a part of the next day, he said; his child could not be left any longer; but he wished very much to see me, and so had contrived to get a few days.
"Indeed!" I said. "You honor me. Your Huntsville friends scarcely expected to be remembered so long."
"They have not done me justice, then," he said, quietly. "I seem to have the warmest recollection of any. Good-night, Miss Mead. I shall not be likely to see you again."
He gave me his hand, but it was very cold, and I let it slip as coldly from mine. He went down the gravel-walk slowly and heavily, and he certainly sighed as he closed the gate. Could I give him up thus? "Down pride! You have held sway long enough! I must part more kindly, or die!" I ran down the gravel-walk and overtook him in the avenue. He stopped as I came up, and turned to meet me.
"Forgive me," I said, breathlessly. "I could not part with old friends so, after wishing so much for them."
He took both my hands in his. "Have you wished for me, Rachel?" he said, tenderly. "I thought you would scarcely have treated a stranger with so little kindness."
"I was afraid to be warmer," I said.
"Afraid of what?" he asked.
My mouth was unsealed. "Are you to be married?" I asked.