“I’m tired,” said Unity.  “You hurt me, and I’m tired.”

“I never heard you say that before.  Look at me! the tears are in your eyes.”

“Everybody cries over Eloisa to Abelard.

     “O death all-eloquent! you only prove
     What dust we dote on, when’t is man we love!

“Where are you going?”

“Home first, then—­I don’t know where.  Good-bye.”

“Don’t go.”

“I’m afraid the book in the lilac bush is spoiled.  If you’ll allow me,
I’ll send you another copy.”

“Please don’t go.”

“The tears are on your cheeks.  It is a moving poem.

     “Oh, may we never love as those have loved!

“This is the third and last good-bye.  Good-bye.”

The younger Cary turned and resolutely walked away.  Miss Dandridge rose and followed him.  He did not turn his head, and the thick turf could not echo her light footfall.  He walked firmly, with the port of a man who hears a distant drum beat to action.  Miss Dandridge admired the attitude through her tears.  He walked rapidly and the sweep of greensward between them widened.  It was no great distance to the driveway and the white pillars of the house.  Uncle Dick and Uncle Edward, Deb, the servants, any one, might be looking out of the windows.  For one moment Unity stopped short as Atalanta when she saw the golden apple, then she began to run.  She touched her goal within ten feet of the house, and he stood still and looked at the hand upon his arm.  “Oh!” she panted.  “Don’t go!  I—­I—­I—­”

“I—?”

“I love you.  Oh!”

If any window saw, it was discreet and never told, remembering perhaps a youth of its own.  The embrace was not prolonged beyond a minute.  Unity, red and beautiful, released herself, looked about her like a startled dryad, and made again for the catalpa.  Fairfax Cary followed, and they took that portion of the circular bench which had between it and the house the giant bole of the tree.  Before them dipped the shady hollow, filled with the rustling of leaves, cool and retired as its parent forest.

“Oh, yes, yes; it’s true, gospel true!” cried Unity.  “But I’ll not be married for a long, long year!”

“A year!  You’re going to be cruel again.”

“No, no, I’m not cruel!  I never was.  ’Twas all your imagination.  When I marry, I’ll be married hard and fast, hand and foot, wind and rain, sleet and snow, June and December, forever and a day, world without end, amen! holidays and all!  I may live forever, and I’ll be married all that time.  I want just one little year to say good-bye to Unity Dandridge in.”

“We’ll take her to Greenwood with us.”

“No, no.  We’ll bury her in the flower garden the day before.  Just one year—­please!”

“Oh, Unity, when you say ’please’!”

“This is August.  I’ll marry you twelve little months from now—­please!”

“A thousand things may happen—­”