" From what, he was never
to say.
But all things end, and he heard of her at last. She had never
returned to the Post, as he at first thought she would, but had gone
to the little town of B----, in Ontario, where she was making her
living at embroidery and plain sewing.
The September sun had set redly when at last he reached the
outskirts of the town, opened up the wicket gate, and walked up the
weedy, unkept path leading to the cottage where she lodged.
Even through the twilight, he could see her there, leaning on the
rail of the verandah--oddly enough she had about her shoulders the
scarlet velvet cloak she wore when he had flung himself so madly
from the room that night.
The moment the lad saw her his heart swelled with a sudden heat,
burning moisture leapt into his eyes, and clogged his long, boyish
lashes. He bounded up the steps--"Christie," he said, and the word
scorched his lips like audible flame.
She turned to him, and for a second stood magnetized by his
passionately wistful face; her peculiar grayish eyes seemed to
drink the very life of his unquenchable love, though the tears that
suddenly sprang into his seemed to absorb every pulse in his body
through those hungry, pleading eyes of his that had, oh! so often
been blinded by her kisses when once her whole world lay in their
blue depths.
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