"I am broad enough to
judge you sanely. I know what you mean. It would be no harm to you. It
would not matter to me, but here we will think of some one else. Edith
Carr would not want your lips to-morrow if she knew they had touched
mine to-day. I was wise to say: 'Go quickly!'"
Philip still clung to her. "Will you write me?" he begged.
"No," said Elnora. "There is nothing to say, save good-bye. We can do
that now."
He held on. "Promise that you will write me only one letter," he urged.
"I want just one message from you to lock in my desk, and keep always.
Promise you will write once, Elnora."
She looked into his eyes, and smiled serenely. "If the talking trees
tell me this winter, the secret of how a man may grow perfect, I will
write you what it is, Philip. In all the time I have known you, I never
have liked you so little. Good-bye."
She drew away her hand and swiftly turned back to the road. Philip
Ammon, wordless, started toward Onabasha on a run.
Elnora crossed the road, climbed the fence and sought the shelter of
their own woods. She chose a diagonal course and followed it until
she came to the path leading past the violet patch. She went down this
hurriedly. Her hands were clenched at her side, her eyes dry and bright,
her cheeks red-flushed, and her breath coming fast. When she reached the
patch she turned into it and stood looking around her.
The mosses were dry, the flowers gone, weeds a foot high covered it.
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