Over the vast green sea of the
eastern wilderness the moon swung her silvery lamp, and up the valley
floated a wide veil of mist bedashed with silvery light.
The parson climbed the crest of the hill, sat down, laid his hat on the
grass, and slipped his long sensitive fingers backward over his shining
hair. Neither man spoke at first; their friendship put them at ease. Nor
did the one notice the shrinking and dread which was the other's only
welcome.
"Did you see the Falconers this morning?"
The parson's tone was searching and troubled and gentler than it had been
earlier that day.
"No."
"They were looking for you. They thought you'd gone home and said they'd go
by for you. They expected you to go out with them to dinner. Haven't you
been there to-day?"
"No."
"I certainly supposed you'd go. I know they looked for you and must have
been disappointed. Isn't this your last Sunday?"
"Yes."
He answered absently. He was thinking that if she was looking for him, then
she had not understood and their relation still rested on the old innocent
footing. Whatever explanation of his conduct and leave-taking the day before
she had devised, it had not been in his disfavour.
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