"
"And the past?" asked Amy, with a blush of shame.
"Is past," said Dick, emphatically. "No one in Boyd City knows your
story, nor need they ever know."
"One man there can tell them," answered the girl, with averted face.
"You are mistaken," said Dick, quietly. And then, as gently as he
could, he told her of Whitley's death. But of his connection with him
and the real cause of the fight in the cabin, he said nothing.
It was hard for Dick to advise Amy to go home, for as she was then,
they were equals. If she went back to Boyd City, all would be changed.
But he had fought over the question in his own mind and the right had
conquered.
Amy agreed with him that it was best, and added, "I have felt all along
that I ought to do this after a while, but I wished to see you again
first, and had you not happened to find me, I should have written to
you later."
And so it was settled. No word of love was spoken between them. Dick
would not permit himself to speak then, because he felt that she ought
not to be influenced by her present surroundings; and even had he
spoken, Amy would not have listened, because she felt her work could
only be complete when she had returned to her old position and had
proved herself by her life there.
And so they parted, with only a silent clasping of hands, as they stood
beside the brook that chattered on its way to join the other; though
there was a world of love in both the gray eyes and the brown; a love
none the less strong because unspoken.
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