He had come all the way down there with me, just as he had before.  But he hadn’t acted the same at all.  He didn’t fidget this time, nor walk over to look at maps and time-tables, nor flip out his watch every other minute with such a bored air that everybody knew he was seeing me off just as a duty.  And he didn’t ask if I was warmly clad, and had I left anything, either.  He just sat and talked to me, and he asked me had I been a little happier there with him this year than last; and he said he hoped I had.

And I told him, of course, I had; that it had been perfectly beautiful there, even if there had been such a mix-up of him getting ready for Marie, and Mother sending Mary.  And he laughed and looked queer—­sort of half glad and half sorry; and said he shouldn’t worry about that.  Then the train came, and we got on and rode down to the junction.  And there, while we were waiting for the other train, he told me how sorry he was to have me go.

He said I would never know how he missed me after I went last year.  He said you never knew how you missed things—­and people—­till they were gone.  And I wondered if, by the way he said it, he wasn’t thinking of Mother more than he was of me, and of her going long ago.  And he looked so sort of sad and sorry and noble and handsome, sitting there beside me, that suddenly I ’most wanted to cry.  And I told him I did love him, I loved him dearly, and I had loved to be with him this summer, and that I’d stay his whole six months with him next year if he wanted me to.

He shook his head at that; but he did look happy and pleased, and said I’d never know how glad he was that I’d said that, and that he should prize it very highly—­the love of his little daughter.  He said you never knew how to prize love, either, till you’d lost it; and he said he’d learned his lesson, and learned it well.  I knew then, of course, that he was thinking of Mother and the long ago.  And I felt so sorry for him.

“But I’ll stay—­I’ll stay the whole six months next year!” I cried again.

But again he shook his head.

“No, no, my dear; I thank you, and I’d love to have you; but it is much better for you that you stay in Boston through the school year, and I want you to do it.  It’ll just make the three months I do have you all the dearer, because of the long nine months that I do not,” he went on very cheerfully and briskly; “and don’t look so solemn and long-faced.  You’re not to blame—­for this wretched situation.”

The train came then, and he put me on board, and he kissed me again—­but I was expecting it this time, of course.  Then I whizzed off, and he was left standing all alone on the platform.  And I felt so sorry for him; and all the way down to Boston I kept thinking of him—­what he said, and how he looked, and how fine and splendid and any-woman-would-be-proud-of-him he was as he stood on the platform waving good-bye.

And so I guess I was still thinking of him and being sorry for him when I got to Boston.  That’s why I couldn’t be so crazy and hilariously glad when the folks met me, I suspect.  Some way, all of a sudden, I found myself wishing he could be there, too.