I
felt the pangs of renunciation.
We walked back to the wagon in silence, and found. Virginia and Grandma
Thorndyke sitting on the spring seat with grandma's arm about the girl,
with a handkerchief in her hand, just as if she had been wiping the
tears from Virginia's eyes; but the girl was laughing and talking in a
manner more lively than I had ever seen her exhibit. She was as happy,
apparently, as I was gloomy and downcast.
I wanted the Thorndykes to go away so that I could have a farewell talk
with Virginia; but they stayed on and stayed on, and finally, after
dark, grandma rose with a look at Virginia which she seemed to
understand, and they took my girl's satchel and all walked off together
toward the tavern.
I sat down and buried my face in my hands, Virginia's good-by had been
so light, so much like the parting of two mere strangers. And after all
what was I to her but a stranger? She was of a different sort from me.
She had lived in cities. She had a good education--at least I thought
so. She was like the Thorndykes--city folks, educated people, who could
have no use for a clodhopper like me, a canal hand, a rough character.
And just as I had plunged myself into the deepest despair, I heard a
light footfall, and Virginia knelt down before me on the ground and
pulled my hands from my eyes.
"Don't cry," said she. "We'll see each other again. I came back to bid
you good-by, and to say that you've been so good to me that I can't
think of it without tears! Good-by, Jacob!"
She lifted my face between her two hands, kissed me the least little
bit, and ran off.
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