to be going."

She had her face turned from him, and was busy over her plants, to
hide the tremulous dismay that had shaken her at his news.

She did not ask him what he meant, nor did she ask again where he was
going. For the moment, she could not trust her voice to say more.

"Too late, because I've seen in this valley some one I'll never
forget, and too soon because that some one will forget me, sure as a
gun," he told her.

"Not if you write to him."

"It isn't a him. It's my little nurse."

"I'll tell auntie how you feel about it, and I'm sure she won't forget
you."

"You know mighty well I ain't talking about auntie."

"Then I suppose you must mean me."

"That's who I'm meaning."

"I think I'll be able to remember you if I try-- by Teddy," she
answered, without looking at him, and devoted herself to petting the
horse.

"Is it-- would it be any use to say any more, Arlie?" he asked, in a