ick" Hammar's mind as well as if he had told
me. A terrible excitement went through me. I wanted to fling myself at
"Nick" Hammar and beat him with my fists and say, "He sha'n't go--he
sha'n't, he sha'n't!" But I sat there unable to move or speak. Then
suddenly into the frozen silence came the voice of "Nick" Hammar. This
is what he said in his easy and tranquil way:

"Well, I'm goin' along. Are you coming, Conboy?" He spoke as though
nothing had happened. "I'll meet you down at the wharf, Johnny, in a
half hour. I'll leave you to say good-by to Deolda." They went out, the
wind blowing the door shut behind them.

Deolda got up and so did Johnny. They stood facing each other in the
queer yellow light of the coming storm. They didn't notice my aunt or
me.

"_You going?_" asked Deolda.

They looked into each other's eyes, and he answered so I could barely
hear:

"Sure."

"_You know what he's thinking about?_" said Deolda.

Again Johnny waited before he answered in a voice hardly above a
whisper:

"I can guess."

Deolda went up slowly to him and put one of her long hands on each of
his shoulders. She looked deep into his eyes. She didn't speak; she just
looked. And he looked back, as though trying to find out what she had in
her heart, and as he looked a little flicker of horror went over his
face. Then he smiled a slow smile, as though he had understood something
and consented to it--and it was a queer smile to see on the face of a
young fellow. It was as if the youth of Johnny Deutra had passed away
forever. Then Deolda said to him:

"Good for you, Johnny Deutra!" and put out her hand, and he laid his in
hers and they shook on it, though no word had passed between them. And
all this time my aunt and I sat motionless on the haircloth sofa next to
the wall. And I tell you as I watched them my blood ran cold, though I
didn't understand what it was about. But later I understood well enough.

There never was so long an evening. The squall blew over and a heavy
blow set in. I could hear the pounding of the waves on the outside
shore. Deolda sat outside the circle of the lamp in a horrible tense
quiet. My aunt tried to make talk, and made a failure of it. It was
awful to hear the clatter of her voice trying to sound natural in the
face of the whistle of the storm, and out wallowing in it the gasoline
dory with its freight of hatred. I hated to go to bed, for my room gave
on the sea, and it seemed as if the night a