That morning Miss Lou stood on the veranda and bade farewell, one after another, to those with whom she had been associated so strangely and unexpectedly.  There was an unwonted huskiness in Dr. Borden’s voice, and Ackley, usually so grim and prompt, held the girl’s hand lingeringly as he tried to make a joke about her defying him and the whole Confederacy.  It was a dismal failure.  Regarding him with her weary eyes, she said: 

“Doctor, you had wit enough and heart enough to understand and subdue me.  Haven’t I minded you since?”

“I’m a little afraid you’d still get the upper hand if you often looked at me as you do now.  I shall find out, however, if you will obey one more order.  Miss Baron, you must rest.  Your pulse indicates unusual exhaustion.  You have tried to do too much, and I expect those young men have been making such fierce and counter claims that you are all worn out.  Ah, if I had been only twenty years younger I would have won you by a regular course of scientific love-making.”

“I don’t know anything about science and wouldn’t understand you.  So it is better as it is, for I do understand what a good, kind friend you’ve been.  You knew all the while that I was little more than an ignorant child, yet your courtesy was so fine that you treated me like a woman.  I hope we shall meet again in brighter days.  Yes, I will obey you, for I feel the need of rest.”

“I shall come again and take my chances,” said Maynard in parting.

Mercurial Whately, forgetting his various troubles and experiences in the excitement of change and return to active duty, bade her a rather boisterous and good-hearted farewell.  His mind was completely relieved as to Maynard, and he did not dream of Scoville as a serious rival.

“It’s only a question of time,” he thought, “and at present mother can do the courting better than I can.  When I return Lou will be so desperately bored by her stupid life here as to be ready for any change.”

The remaining patients looked at her and Mrs. Whately very wistfully and gratefully, speaking reluctant adieus.  When all were gone the girl, feeling that she had reached the limit of endurance, went to her room and slept till evening.  It was the sleep of exhaustion, so heavy that she came down to a late supper weak and languid.  But youth is elastic, the future full of infinite possibilities.  Scoville’s words haunted her like sweet refrains of music.  No matter how weary, perplexed and sad she was, the certainty of her place in his thoughts and heart sustained her and was like a long line of light in the west, indicating a clearing storm.  “He will come again,” she often whispered to herself; “he said he would if he had to come on crutches.  Oh, he does love me.  He gave me his love that night direct, warm from his heart, because he couldn’t help himself.  He thought he loved me before—­when, by the run, he told me of it so quietly, so free from all exaction and demands; but I didn’t feel it.  It merely seemed like bright sunshine of kindness and goodwill, very sweet and satisfying then.  But when we were parting, when his tones trembled so, when overcome, he lost restraint and snatched me to his heart—­then I learned that I, too, had a heart.”