"Never?"
"Why, no, 'tain't possible. You--you are a--Yankee!"
"Oh, I know it, but----" Eventually he continued, "Well, some day, you
know, when there's no more fighting, we might----" He observed that she
had again withdrawn suddenly into the shadow, so he said, "Well,
good-bye!"
When he held her fingers she bowed her head, and he saw a pink blush
steal over the curves of her cheek and neck.
"Am I never going to see you again?"
She made no reply.
"Never?" he repeated.
After a long time, he bent over to hear a faint reply: "Sometimes--when
there are no troops in the neighbourhood--grandpa don't mind if I--walk
over as far as that old oak tree yonder--in the afternoons."
It appeared that the captain's grip was very strong, for she uttered an
exclamation and looked at her fingers as if she expected to find them
mere fragments. He rode away.
The bay horse leaped a flower bed. They were almost to the drive, when
the girl uttered a panic-stricken cry.
The captain wheeled his horse violently and upon his return journey went
straight through a flower bed.
The girl had clasped her hands. She beseeched him wildly with her eyes.
"Oh, please, don't believe it! I never walk to the old oak tree. Indeed,
I don't! I never--never--never walk there."
The bridle drooped on the bay charger's neck. The captain's figure
seemed limp. With an expression of profound dejection and gloom he
stared off at where the leaden sky met the dark green line of the woods.
The long-impending rain began to fall with a mournful patter, drop and
drop. There was a silence.
At last a low voice said, "Well--I might--sometimes I
might--perhaps--but only once in a great while--I might walk to the old
tree--in the afternoons."