“He expected to. I declare, Constance, you look worn out. Didn't you sleep well?”
“No, not very. I wonder if they are coming?”
“You might go look,” said her mother, and Constance hurried into the parlor. She was just in time to see her father enter the gate. He was alone. Constance flew to the front door and threw it open.
“He wouldn't come?” she cried, breathlessly.
“He's gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes, a train was made up early this morning, and he has returned to Buckhorn—Why, what's the matter, Constance?”
For Constance, with a little gasp of dismay, had slipped down into a chair, with her hands before her face.
“What is it, dear?” he questioned, anxiously. But she gave him no answer. She was crying softly, unrestrainedly. It was all over. Oakley was gone, and with him went her only hope of happiness. Yet more keen than her sense of pain and personal loss was her regret that he would never understand that she respected and admired him as he deserved.
“I am sorry, Constance, but I didn't know that you especially wanted to see him,” said the doctor, awkwardly, but with a dawning comprehension of what it all meant. She made no answer.