"I couldn't," he answered, "because I knew they had gone."
"You knew Eden and Minny had gone?"
"Yes." He gave a short, strained laugh. "I was riding. The gates at the crossing dropped as I got there. It was just light enough for me to make out their two figures on the platform. They were carrying bags. And when the train passed I saw him again at a window." His grimness was dispersed by the sudden arch grin so amazingly like old Adeline's. "He saw me and waved his hand!"
"And that is why you didn't come in to supper?"
He nodded.
"But why?"
"I can't tell. I simply couldn't—knowing that."
In sudden pain, she asked: "And you weren't going to tell me? You were going to let me go back to the Hut and find out for myself?"
"I suppose."
"But how cruel of you!"
He did not answer; his eyes were on the little pearl-white hollow of her throat.
Now her eyes searched the dark depths of his. Was he really cruel, or only shy as a wild animal is shy, afraid of things he does not understand? She remembered the sound of someone moving in the pine wood, of Finch's odd look when he returned from searching.
"Were you in the woods? Was it you Finch and I heard, then?"
Again he did not answer, but this time he came and put his head against hers, and whispered: "Don't ask me questions. Love me."
She felt the fire of his kiss on her neck. She clung to him, her forehead pressed against his shoulder. They could find no words, but their hearts, pressed close, talked together in the language of the surging tides, the winds that bend the branches to their will, the rain that penetrates the deep warmth of the earth.
