When Jerome went home he had in his pocket a deed of the land, but on the right bank of the brook only, the lawyer having covenanted not to sell or build upon the left bank.  Thus he had enough land upon which to build his mill when he should have saved the money.  He felt nearer Lucina than he had ever done before.  The sanguineness of youth, which is its best stimulant for advance, thrilled through all his veins.  He had mentioned five years as the possible length of time before acquisition; secretly he laughed at the idea.  Five years!  Why, he could save enough money in three years—­in less than three years—­in two years!  It had been only a short time since he had made the last payment on the mortgage, and he had saved his two hundred and sixty-five dollars.  A saw-mill would not cost much.  He could build a great part of it himself.

That night Jerome truly counted his eggs before they were hatched.  All the future seemed but a nest for his golden hopes.  He would work and save—­he was working and saving.  He would build his mill; as he thought further, the foundation-stones were laid, the wheel turned, and the saw hissed through the live wood.  He would marry Lucina; he saw her in her bridal white—­

All this time, with that sublime cruelty which man can show towards one beloved when working for love’s final good, and which is a feeble prototype of the Higher method, Jerome gave not one thought to the fact that Lucina knew nothing of his plans, and, if she loved him, as she had said, must suffer.  When, moreover, one has absolute faith in, and knowledge of, his own intentions for the welfare of another, it is difficult to conceive that the other may not be able to spell out his actions towards the same meaning.

Jerome really felt as if Lucina knew.  The next Sunday he watched her come into meeting with an exquisite sense of possession, which he imagined her to understand.

When he did not go to see her that night, but, instead, sat happily brooding over the future, it never once occurred to him that it might be otherwise with her.

All poor Lucina’s ebullition of spirits from her pleasant visit, her pretty gowns, and her fond belief that Jerome could not have meant what he said, and would come to see her after her return, was fast settling into the dregs of disappointment.

Night after night she put on one of her prettiest gowns, and waited with that wild torture of waiting which involves uncertainty and concealment, and Jerome did not come.  Lucina began to believe that Jerome did not love her; she tried to call her maidenly pride to her aid, and succeeded in a measure.  She stopped putting on a special gown to please Jerome should he come; she stopped watching out for him; she stopped healing her mind with hope in order that it might be torn open afresh with disappointment, but the wound remained and gaped to her consciousness, and Lucina was a tender thing.  She held her beautiful head high and forced her face to gentle smiles, but she went thin and pale, and could not sleep of a night, and her mother began to fret about her, and her father to lay down his knife and fork and stare at her across the table when she could not eat.