“He is gone!” she whispered at last.  “He would go at once.  He would not see me again.  I should think he never would want to see me any more.  But I will want to see him!  My soul!  I want him now!  I want him every minute!  He is all I have.  And I’ve sent him away.  Oh, these dreadful days to come, alone!  I can’t bear it.  Hart!  Hart!” she cried aloud.  “I want you!  No one cares but you.  No one understands but you.  Oh, I want you!”

She sprang from her bed and felt her way to her desk.

“Get me some one at the Henderson cottage,” she said to Central, and waited shivering.

“They don’t answer.”

“They are there!  You must get them.  Turn on the buzzer.”

After a time the sleepy voice of Mrs. Henderson answered.

“Has Hart gone?” panted Edith Carr.

“No!  He came in late and began to talk about starting to California.  He hasn’t slept in weeks to amount to anything.  I put him to bed.  There is time enough to start to California when he awakens.  Edith, what are you planning to do next with that boy of mine?”

“Will you tell him I want to see him before he goes?”

“Yes, but I won’t wake him.”

“I don’t want you to.  Just tell him in the morning.”

“Very well.”

“You will be sure?”

“Sure!”

Hart was not gone.  Edith fell asleep.  She arose at noon the next day, took a cold bath, ate her breakfast, dressed carefully, and leaving word that she had gone to the forest, she walked slowly across the leaves.  It was cool and quiet there, so she sat where she could see him coming, and waited.  She was thinking deep and fast.

Henderson came swiftly down the path.  A long sleep, food, and Edith’s message had done him good.  He had dressed in new light flannels that were becoming.  Edith arose and went to meet him.

“Let us walk in the forest,” she said.

They passed the old Catholic graveyard, and entered the deepest wood of the Island, where all shadows were green, all voices of humanity ceased, and there was no sound save the whispering of the trees, a few bird notes and squirrel rustle.  There Edith seated herself on a mossy old log, and Henderson studied her.  He could detect a change.  She was still pale and her eyes tired, but the dull, strained look was gone.  He wanted to hope, but he did not dare.  Any other man would have forced her to speak.  The mighty tenderness in Henderson’s heart shielded her in every way.

“What have you thought of that you wanted yet, Edith?” he asked lightly as he stretched himself at her feet.

“You!”

Henderson lay tense and very still.

“Well, I am here!”

“Thank Heaven for that!”

Henderson sat up suddenly, leaning toward her with questioning eyes.  Not knowing what he dared say, afraid of the hope which found birth in his heart, he tried to shield her and at the same time to feel his way.