ee you again?"

"I am coming again with Mrs. Goodwin next summer."

"That'll be like a boy's Christmas--ten years in coming. Can't I come to
see you in town?"

"I shall not be in the town. I am going into the country to teach."

"Then I can come into the country."

"No. With your wild ways you would make me feel ashamed."

"You are right--I've got sense enough to see it. But is there to be no
better understanding between us?"

"Didn't you say that all--something could not keep us apart? Is not
that understanding enough?" They had halted again, and she had given him
her eyes.

"It's an acknowledgment, but not a plan. What I want is something to
work up to."

"There is the carriage coming down the road over yonder. Mrs. Goodwin is
waving her handkerchief at me. The station is just across the fence."

"I know all that. But won't you let me write to you?"

"I should like to hear from you. A letter from you in the winter might
bring the summer back--the crickets in the grass and the wild sunflowers
by the ditch. Yes, you may write to me."

"And you will send me your address?"

"Yes, I will write first--when I go to the country. Not before."

"And if you don't go to the country I am not to know where you are?"

"But I am going to the country. You shall hear."

Near the road, between them and the station, stood an old cheese
factory, now inhabited by summer vagabonds. The windows were stuffed
with cast-off clothes. It was a wretched place, but now it served a
purpose--it shut off all view from the station. It made no difference as
to who might peep from the windows.

They walked on slowly a few paces, and halted behind the old house. They
heard the rumble of the train. He looked down at her up-turned face. Her
lips were slightly apart as if on the eve of Utterance. He thought of
the seam in a ripe peach.

"There, the train is coming," she said.

"Plenty--plenty of time."

"No. Mrs. Goodwin is calling me. Good-bye," she said, still suffering
him to hold her hand. "Are you always going to be a wild man?"

"You remember what they used to call me."

"Yes, that bad name. But I must go."

She ran away from him. He strode back across the field. He heard the
train when it stopped and when it started again, but did not look round.
He stood in the ditch where he had helped her across. There was the
print of her foot in the moist earth. He heard the crickets crying in
the deep grass. He lay down for a moment,