"Perhaps you are right; God knows. At any
rate we are going to do whatever you say in this matter. I promise to
keep out of your way until you say I can come."
Nance drew a quivering breath, and smiled up at him through her tears.
"That's not enough, Dan; you got to keep away whether I say to come or
not. You're stronger and better than what I am. You got to promise that
whatever happens you'll make me be good."
And Dan with trembling lips and steady eyes made her the solemn promise.
Then, sitting there in the twilight, with only the dropping of a leaf to
break the silence, they poured out their confidences, eager to reach a
complete understanding in the brief time they had allotted themselves. In
minute detail they pieced together the tangled pattern of the past; they
poured out their present aims and ambitions, coming back again and again
to the miracle of their new-found love. Of their personal future, they
dared not speak. It was locked to them, and death alone held the key.
Darkness had closed in when the side door of the house across the yard
was flung open, and a small figure came plunging toward them through the
crackling leaves.
"It's done, Daddy!" cried an excited voice. "It's the cutest little
gingerbread man. And supper's ready, and he's standing up by my plate."
"All right!" said Dan, holding out one hand to him and one to Nance.
"We'll all go in together to see the gingerbread man."
"But, Dan--"
"Just this once; it's our good-by night, you know.
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