He seated himself on the bench, his eyes overlooking the park. All the hours he had passed with Kate beneath the wide-spreading trees rose in his mind; the day they had read aloud to each other, her pretty feet tucked under her so that the dreadful ants couldn't touch her dainty stockings; the morning when she was late and he had waited and fumed stretching minutes into hours in his impatience; that summer night when the two had hidden behind the big oak so that he could kiss her good-night and none of the others see.
With these memories stirring, his letter was forgotten, and his head dropped upon his breast, as if the weight of all he had lost was greater than he could bear. Grasping his walking-stick the tighter he began tracing figures in the gravel, his thoughts following each line. Suddenly his ears caught the sound of a quick step--one he thought strangely familiar.
Kate had passed him and had given no sign of her presence!
“Kate!--KATE!--Are you going to treat me as my father treated me! Don't, please!--You'll never see me again--but don't cut me like that: I have never done anything but love you!”
The girl came to a halt, but she did not turn her head, nor did she answer.
“Please, Kate--won't you speak to me? It may be the last time I shall ever see you. I am going away from Kennedy Square. I was going to write you a letter; I came out here to think of what I ought to say--”
She raised her head and half turned her trembling body so that she could see his face, her eyes reading his.
“I didn't think you wanted me to speak to you or you would have looked up.”
“I didn't see you until you had passed. Can't we sit down here?--no one will see us.”
She suffered him to take her hand and lead her to the bench. There she sat, her eyes still searching his face--a wondering, eager look, discovering every moment some old remembered spot--an eyebrow, or the line at the corner of the mouth, or the round of the cheek--each and every one bringing back to her the days that were past and gone never to return.
“You are going away?” she said at last--“why? Aren't you happy with Uncle George? He would miss you, I am sure.” She had let the scarf fall from her shoulders as she spoke, bringing into view the full round of her exquisite throat. He had caught its flash, but he could not trust himself to look the closer.