hom he could never win, than to
love and be loved by any other woman. His great office in life was to
be her friend, humble and unexpectant; to be at hand if she should
need him for ever so trifling a service; never to presume, always to
be faithful.

Sara had not forgotten her old friend. But their former comradeship
was now impossible; they could be friends, but never again
companions. Sara's life was full and gay; she had interests in which
he had no share; her social world was utterly apart from his; she was
of the hill and its traditions, he was of the valley and its people.
The democracy of childhood past, there was no common ground on which
they might meet. Only one thing Jeffrey had found it impossible to
contemplate calmly. Some day Sara would marry--a man who was her
equal, who sat at her father's table as a guest. In spite of himself,
Jeffrey's heart filled with hot rebellion at the thought; it was like
a desecration and a robbery.

But, as the years went by, this thing he dreaded did not happen. Sara
did not marry, although gossip assigned her many suitors not unworthy
of her. She and Jeffrey were always friends, although they met but
seldom. Sometimes she sent him a book; it was his custom to search for
the earliest mayflowers and take them to her; once in a long while
they met and talked of many things. Jeffrey's calendar from year to
year was red-lettered by these small happenings, of which nobody knew,
or, knowing, would have cared.

So he and Sara drifted out of youth, together yet apart. Her mother
had died, and Sara was the gracious, stately mistress of Pinehurst,
which grew quieter as the time went on; the lovers ceased to come, and
holiday friends grew few; with the old colonel's failing health the
gaieties and lavish entertaining ceased. Jeffrey thought that Sara
must often be lonely, but she never said so; she remained sweet,
serene, calm-eyed, like the child he had met on the hill. Only, now
and then, Jeffrey fancied he saw a shadow on her face--a shadow so
faint and fleeting that only the eye of an unselfish, abiding love,
made clear-sighted by patient years, could have seen it. It hurt him,
that shadow; he would have given anything in his power to have
banished it.

And now this long friendship was to be broken. Sara was going away. At
first he had thought only of her pain, but now his own filled his
heart. How could he live without her? How could he dwell in the valley
knowing that she h