She did not know what she looked for; she did not know what she
expected him to mean; she expected nothing; the thought of his
preventing it in any way never entered into her head; she knew, if
she _had_ thought, how he himself was waiting, working. She only
wanted him to _care_. Was this caring? Much? She could not tell.

"We never can come _back_," she said, impetuously. "There will be
all the time--everything--between."

He almost spoke to her of it, then; he almost told her that the
everything might be more, not less; that friendships gathered,
multiplied; that there would be one home, he hoped, in which, by and
by, she would often be; in which she would always be a dear and
welcome comer.

But she was so sad, so tried; his lips were held; in his pure,
honest kindness, he never dreamt of any harm that his silence might
do; it only seemed so selfish to tell her how bright it was with
him.

So he said, smiling,--

"And who knows what the 'everything' may be?" And he took both her
hands in his as he said good-by,--for his little stops were of
minutes on his way, always,--and held them fast, and looked warmly,
hopefully into her face.

It was all for her,--to give her hope and courage; but the light of
it was partly kindled by his own hope and gladness that lay behind;