Part 36 (1/2)
”Oh, I see. But I thought you wanted to go with her.”
”I knew that you did not,” she replied.
”But did you?” he asked.
”I would not spoil a beautiful day,” she answered.
They dined at the bakery, flattering themselves that the girl who waited on them did not know that they were lovers. They did not see her wink at her fat mother behind the showcase.
”I haven't asked you how long I may stay,” said Milford, as they walked out.
”I was afraid to come to that,” she replied. ”I must leave on the train to-night. I have only waited for you.”
”When do you think I can see you again?”
”I do not know. I will write.”
”Remember that nothing can keep us apart--nothing but yourself.”
”Then we shall not be kept apart. But why do you leave it with me?”
”Because you are to decide when I tell you something.”
”Do you put it off because it is so hard to tell?”
”No, because I'm not ready yet. I will be when I close out with the old woman.”
”I would like to know now.”
”It would be plucking green fruit,” he replied.
”You know best,” she said, trustfully.
The air grew chilly when the sun had set, and they returned to the cottage to sit alone in the parlor. They heard the kindly tones of the gripman talking to his children. There was a melodeon in the room, and she played a Norwegian hymn. The barefoot youngsters scampered in the pa.s.sage-way.
”Let them come in,” he said.
”No, they are undressed for bed,” she replied. It was the evening romp, a tired mother's trial-time before the hour of rest when all are asleep.
He went to the railway station with her; walked that they might be longer on the road, looked at cottages, gazed up at flats, planning for the future. In the deep secrecy of a crowd he kissed her good-bye, and then went forth to stroll about the town. He stood listening to the weird song of a salvation woman; he dropped a nickel into a rich beggar's hat; he saw the grief-stricken newsboy weeping in a doorway, and believing that he was a liar, gave him a penny; he went to sleep in a hotel and dreamed that he saw a woman with bowed head listening to the angelus.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE BIGGEST LIAR ON EARTH.
When Milford reached Rollins he found the Professor at the station waiting for him. ”I will go home with you,” he said. ”I have something of grave importance to communicate.” Steve Hardy offered them a ride in his milk wagon, but they set out on foot, at the suggestion of the Professor, who said that in this way he could better lead up to his subject. Milford was silent till they had proceeded some distance down the lane, and then he asked if anything had gone wrong. The Professor answered that everything had gone wrong, but as he had not yet led up to his subject, he continued to walk on, brooding, sighing like the wind in the rushes. They turned the corner, went down a slope, and at the bottom, the scholar took Milford by the arm apparently to conduct him to the subject, which presumably was waiting on the top of the hill.
”We are coming to it, my dear Milford. It is elusive, but we are almost to it. Now, here we are,” he said, with evident relief, as they reached the top of the hill.