“And, after all, I am entitled to know first,” Grizel said, “for I am your oldest friend.”

Friend!  He could not help repeating the word with bitter emphasis.  For her sake, as it seemed to him now, he had flung himself into the black waters of the Drumly.  He had worn her glove upon his heart.  It had been the world to him.  And she could stand there and call herself his friend.  The cup was full.  Tommy nodded his head sorrowfully three times.

“So be it, Grizel,” he said huskily; “so be it!” Sentiment could now carry him where it willed.  The reins were broken.

“I don’t understand.”

Neither did he; but, “Why should you?  What is it to you!” he cried wildly.  “Better not to understand, for it might give you five minutes’ pain, Grizel, a whole five minutes, and I should be sorry to give you that.”

“What have I said!  What have I done!”

“Nothing,” he answered her, “nothing.  You have been most exemplary; you have not even got any entertainment out of it.  The thing never struck you as possible.  It was too ludicrous!”

He laughed harshly at the package, which was still in his hand.  “Poor little glove,” he said; “and she did not even take the trouble to look at you.  You might have looked at it, Grizel.  I have looked at it a good deal.  It meant something to me once upon a time when I was a vain fool.  Take it and look at it before you fling it away.  It will make you laugh.”

Now she knew, and her arms rocked convulsively.  Joy surged to her face, and she drove it back.  She looked at him steadfastly over the collar of her jacket; she looked long, as if trying to be suspicious of him for the last time.  Ah, Grizel, you are saying good-bye to your best friend!

As she looked at him thus there was a mournfulness in her brave face that went to Tommy’s heart and almost made a man of him.  It was as if he knew that she was doomed.

“Grizel,” he cried, “don’t look at me in that way!” And he would have taken the package from her, but she pressed it to her heart.

“Don’t come with me,” she said almost in a whisper, and went away.

He did not go back to the house.  He wandered into the country, quite objectless when he was walking fastest, seeing nothing when he stood still and stared.  Elation and dread were his companions.  What elation whispered he could not yet believe; no, he could not believe it.  While he listened he knew that he must be making up the words.  By and by he found himself among the shadows of the Den.  If he had loved Grizel he would have known that it was here she would come, to the sweet Den where he and she had played as children, the spot where she had loved him first.  She had always loved him—­always, always.  He did not know what figure it was by the Cuttle Well until he was quite close to her.  She was kissing the glove passionately, and on her eyes lay little wells of gladness.