As train-time approached the hearts of both these young people began to beat very fast.  Each felt that the good-bys presently to be said might be forever.  In his resolution not even to write to Barbara, Wilmot was weakening pitiably.  He wished that he had taken her at her word and married her Monday when she was in the mood.  Better Barbara unloving, he thought, than this terrible emptiness and aching.  His heart was proving stronger than his mind.  Short, more or less conventional phrases were torn from him.  Barbara, her heart beating faster and faster, said very little.

The attention of her wonderful eyes was divided between the crowds and the station clock.  She could see the minute-hand move.  Once in a while she snatched, as it were, a look at Wilmot.  His eyes were never lifted from her face.

The gate for Wilmot’s train was suddenly slid wide open with a horrid, rasping noise, and people began to press upon the man who examined the tickets.  It was then that Barbara’s roving and troubled eyes came to rest, you may say, in Wilmot’s, with a look so sweet, so confiding, so trusting, that it seemed to the young man that the pain of separation was going to be greater than he could bear.  He lifted his hands as if to take her in his arms, and stood there like a study in arrested motion.

“Best friend in the world,” she said, the great eyes still in his, “most charming companion in the world—­man I’ve hurt so much and so often—­only say the word.”

“What word?  That I love you—­love you—­love you?”

They spoke in whispers.

“Stay with me,” she said, “and for me—­or take me with you.  I can’t bear this.  I can’t bear it.”

“You’d come—­now—­just as you are?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love me?”

Slowly, like two things in anguish, her eyes turned from their steady gazing into his.  And, “I dare not say it,” she said, “but I will go with you—­and try.”

They were aware of something pressing toward them, and turning with a common resentment against interruption, they found themselves looking down upon the legless man.

“Just dropped in to say good-by and wish you good luck,” he said.  His face wore a good-natured smile, and, quite innocent of self-consciousness, brought confusion upon their last moments together.  The tentacles of unreasoning passion that each had been putting forth were beaten down by it and aside.

“Better get a move on—­time’s up.”

“Good-by, Wilmot,” said Barbara swiftly.  “Everything’s all right.  Good luck to you and God bless you.”

She turned, her lovely head drooping, and walked swiftly away.