He drew her closer, and when she turned, their eyes melted together in a look. His face drooped to hers.
"No," she whispered. "Don't ... please, Don. I promised mother. She said it wasn't right."
He released her, his lips trembling, and turned away. In a moment, she put a hand out and touched his arm. "Read me something, Don," she said.
And neither of them understood what had happened.
They did not understand even when they came to say their last good-byes, on the night before her departure. It was a Sunday; she was to go in the early morning; and all her friends and her mother's had called to spend the evening. Don sat in an awkward silence, without being able to find a word to say; she followed him to the porch when he went out. They shook hands, like their elders. "Well, good-bye," he said.
"Good-bye:"
He waited. "You'll be back?"
"Yes," she promised. "I'll be back."
"I'll wait for you." He put on his cap, and hesitated. "Will you write to me?"
"Oh yes! I'll write—often."
He went down a step. "All right," he said bravely. When he reached the path, he added, "Good-bye."
She watched him out to the gate. He turned there; and she, standing in the light of the door, waved her hand and called "Good-bye."
They parted, as young people do, hopefully. The future, they thought, was all theirs to meet again in.
