Does it seem long to
you, Miss Gray--oh, I remember, I am to call you Rosalie."
"It seems that I have known you always instead of for four weeks," she
said gently. "They have been happy weeks, haven't they? My--our only
fear is that you haven't been comfortable in our poor little home. It's
not what you are accustomed--"
"Home is what the home folks make it," he said, striving to quote a
vague old saying. He was dimly conscious of a subdued smile on her part
and he felt the fool. "At any rate, I was more than comfortable. I was
happy--never so happy. All my life shall be built about this single
month--my past ends with it, my future begins. You, Rosalie," he went on
swiftly, his eyes gleaming with the love that would not be denied, "are
the spirit of life as I shall know it from this day forth. It is you who
have made Tinkletown a kingdom, one of its homes a palace. Don't turn
your face away, Rosalie."
But she turned her face toward him and her dark eyes did not flinch as
they met his, out there in the bleak old wood.
"Don't, please don't, Wicker," she said softly, firmly. Her hand touched
his arm for an instant. "You will understand, won't you? Please don't!"
There was a world of meaning in it.
His heart turned cold as ice, the blood left his face. He understood.
She did not love him.
"Yes," he said, his voice dead and hoarse, "I think I understand,
Rosalie.
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