'I wish you would tell me,' she said—and there was a little touch of colour in the pretty, pale, interesting face—'if there is anything I could bring from London that would help you—I mean books about chemistry—or—or—about trees—or instruments for land-surveying—I am sure I could get them——'
He laughed, in a doubtful kind of a way.
'I'm obliged to ye,' he said, 'but it's too soon to speak about that. I havena made up my mind yet.'
'Not yet?'
'No.'
'But you will?'
He said nothing.
'Good-bye, then.'
She held out her hand, so that he could not refuse to take it. So they parted; and the horses' hoofs rang again in the silence of the valley; and she sat looking after the disappearing figure and the meekly following dogs. And then, in the distance, she thought she could make out some faint sound: was he singing to himself as he strode along towards the little hamlet?
'At all events,' she said to herself, with just a touch of pique, 'he does not seem much downhearted at my going away.' And little indeed did she imagine that this song he was thus carelessly and unthinkingly singing was all about Meenie, and red and white roses, and trifles light and joyous as the summer air. For not yet had black care got a grip of his heart.