Wade1 rolled a vest into a tight wad and tucked it into a corner of the till. Then he glanced around the sitting-room2, saw nothing else to pack, and softly dropped the lid. That done he sat down on it and relighted his pipe.
It was two days since Eve and the Doctor had talked under the cedars3, one day since Wade had received her note. He had not seen her since. She hadn't asked him not to, but Wade had stereotyped4 ideas as to the proper conduct of a rejected suitor, and he intended to live up to them. Of course he would call in the morning and say good bye.
He felt no resentment5 against Eve, although her note would have supplied sufficient excuse. He didn't quite know what he did feel. He had striven the evening before to diagnose his condition, with the result that he had decided6 that his heart was not broken, although there was a peculiar7 dull aching sensation there that he fancied was destined8 to grow worse before it got better. So far, what seemed to trouble him most was leaving the cottage and Eden Village. He had grown very fond of both. Already they seemed far more like home to him than Craig's Camp or any place he had known. There had been nothing in that brief, unsatisfactory note intimating that he was expected to leave Eden Village, but he was quite sure that his departure would be the best thing for all concerned. The Doctor, to whom he had confided9 his plan, had thought differently, and had begged him to wait and see if things didn't change. The Doctor was a mighty10 good sort, but—well, he hadn't read Eve's note!
He wasn't leaving Eden Village for good and all. There was comfort in that thought. Some day, probably next summer, he would come back. By that time he would have gotten over it in all probability. Until such time Mr. Zenas Prout and Zephania, in fact the whole Prout family, there to take care of the cottage. Zephania was to sweep it once a month from top to bottom. Wade smiled. He hadn't suggested such care as that, but Zephania had insisted. Zephania, he reflected with a feeling of gratitude11, had been rather cut up about his departure.
Of course it was nobody's fault but his own. He had deliberately12 fallen in love, scorning consequences. Now he was staring at the consequences and didn't like their looks. Thank Heaven, he was a worker, and there was plenty of work to do. Whitehead and the others out there would be surprised to see him coming into camp again so soon. Well, that was nothing. Perhaps, too, it was just as well he was going back early. There was the new shaft-house to get up, and the sooner that was ready the sooner they could work the new lead. He raised his head, conscious of a disturbing factor, and then arose and closed the door into the hall. Closing the door muffled13 the strains that floated down from upstairs, where Zephania, oppressed, but defiant14 of sorrow, was singing:
"'My days are gliding15 swiftly by,
And I, a pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly!
Those hours of toil16 and danger.'"
After awhile, his pipe having gone out again from neglect, he strapped17 and locked the trunk, glanced at his watch and took up his hat. He passed out through the immaculate kitchen, odorous of soapsuds and sunlight, and down through the orchard18, which Zenas Third with his saw and shears19 had converted from a neglected and scrubby riot into a spruce and orderly parade. Unconsciously his feet led him over the same course he had taken on that first walk of his, which ended in an unintentional and disconcerting visit to The Cedars. As before, he followed the brook20, much less a brook now than then by reason of the summer drought, and speculated as to the presence of fish therein. He had intended all along to stroll down here some day and try for sunfish, but he had never done it. Well, that was one of several dreamed-of things which had not come to pass.
The meadow grass had grown tall and heavy, and was touched with gold and russet where the afternoon sunlight slanted21 across it. The birds flew up at his approach and scattered22 in darts23 and circles. To-day when he reached the fence he didn't turn aside toward the road, but climbed over and found an open space on the side of the little hill under the trees, and threw himself down there to smoke his pipe and stare back across the meadow. It was very still in the woods, with only the sleepy chirp24 of a bird or rustling25 of a squirrel to be heard, but from somewhere in the hot glare of the afternoon came the rasping of the first locust26.
Zephania served supper that evening with chastened mien27, and for once she neglected to sing.
"You do think you'll come back, don't you, Mr. Herrick?" she asked.
"Why, yes, Zephania, I expect to. Do you want me to?"
"Oh, yes, sir! We all want you to. Father says if there was more gentlemen like you here, Eden Village would perk28 right up. And Zenas says you and he haven't done nearly all the fishing you were going to."
"No, I suppose not. Tell him we'll try again next summer. I'm leaving my tackle here, tell him, so as I will be sure to come back."
"Yes, sir." Zephania hesitated, half-way to the door. Finally, "It's been awful nice for me, Mr. Herrick," she said. "I've had just the best summer I ever did have."
"Why, you've had a lot of hard work," said Wade. "Is that what you call nice?"
"Yes, sir, but it ain't been very hard. I like to work. It seems as though the harder I work the happier I am, Mr. Herrick."
"Really? Well, now, I reckon that's the way with me, Zephania, come to think about it. I suppose keeping busy at something you like doing comes just as near to spelling happiness as anything can, eh?"
"Yes sir."
"By the way, Zephania, do you wear a hat?"
"Why, yes, sir, of course!"
"Oh! Well, I didn't know; I never saw you with one on. How would you like me to send you a hatpin, then, with a nice little gold nugget for a head?"
"I'd love it! But—but what is a nugget, Mr. Herrick?"
"Oh, a little—a little lump."
"Do you mean ............