Presently the sweet summer dusk, fragrant of herb and flower, enfolded them
as they stood together at the Cottage gate. A sudden silence had fallen
between them. Ann tried to break it, utter some commonplace, but no words
would come. At length he held out his hand, and, as hers slid within it, he
spoke with a curiously tender gravity.
"Good-bye," he said. "Don't let the cynics spoil the world for you. I hope
you'll find your happy garden--whoever doesn't."
"I hope every one will, some day," she answered rather low. Somehow her
voice didn't seem very manageable. "Even cynics."
"I'm afraid I've missed the way there." Still holding her hand in his, he
stared down at her with an odd, tense expression in his eyes. "Ann, do you
think I shall ever find it again?"
His voice vibrated to some unlooked-for emotion, and Ann, hearing and dimly
sensing the demand it held, was suddenly afraid, shrinking back into the
reserves of her young, unconquered womanhood. She tried to withdraw her
hand from his clasp.
Then, from somewhere above her bent head, she heard a low laugh, half
tender, half amused.
"You shall tell me to-morrow, little Ann," he said.
She felt his lips against her palm, and a minute later she was standing
alone by the gate with the sound of Eliot's receding steps coming faintly
to her ears through the scented dusk.
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