an't go away again without telling you a little of what I
think of every minute of my life."

The broad path had many people upon it, the most of them, like
themselves, on their way home. Hertha looked about as though asking him
to say nothing then, but the young man continued in a low voice:

"I haven't anything to say but what you know and every one else knows
who sees you and me. I love you like I didn't believe any one could love
another. I don't ask for anything but to work for you, hoping some time
that you'll take what I have to give. It just about kills me to see you
worrying about your work or money. It's for a man to do that. Don't
worry, dear," he said the word again, almost in a whisper, "we can walk
along together. Let me carry the things."

"No!" Hertha said in a whisper. "Seems to me like it was meant I should
carry them alone."

But she did not take the coat from him when they reached the house,
letting him take it to her room. He laid it on her bed and at once went
out, without glancing her way, but when he turned to her at dinner where
she sat beside him he could see a troubled look in her eyes. He felt as
though he had stirred the waters, just a little, as he had stirred the
lake with his oar that afternoon.

CHAPTER XXVII

The look of happiness on Dick's face made Hertha pass a restless night.
She tossed for a long time on her bed, and only fell into a deep sleep
by morning. And from this she was awakened by a vivid dream. She was
back in her old home among the pines, and never in her waking hours had
she seen the cabin more clearly, its log walls, the weeds growing out of
the white sand. And as she saw her own home, she saw, too, the home of
the whites with its overhanging vines and its broad balcony. In her
dream she moved through one and then another, but each room was deserted
and empty. She ran among the pines and under the live-oaks, draped with
their fringe of swaying moss, but on all her way encountered no human
being; only against the blue sky was a long wavering line of birds. The
loneliness overwhelmed her, it bore down upon her like a physical
weight, until, struggling against the feeling of oppression, she awoke
into the hot morning, threw off her blanket and raised herself on her
pillow the better to breathe.

As she dressed and thought of her dream, she was overcome with remorse.
If the homes were empty, it was because she had made them so. Their life
was in her thought