At last all the partings were over and Bobbie and his father had waved as long as they could see them, to the waiting crowd, and then a silence long and oppressive fell upon both. Bobbie dared not trust himself to speak, and his father was watching solicitously one of the back wheels of the carriage, and only the hoarse, choky “Git up dar, Jonah, git up, you Whale, you,” of Uncle Lias as he jerked the horses, trying to make out there was nothing unusual in the trip they were taking, broke the stillness of the air. A turn in the road, however, made Bobbie start, and caused his heart to give an extra leap. There, waiting under the big willow down by the river road, were Dr. Trevillian and Dorothy, and the former called cheerily that they were waiting to ride part of the way as escort, and to his dying day Bobbie never forgot this gracious act of letting him see Dorothy once more before leaving. He had left her the night before just at twilight, but a new feeling possessed him as he saw her now sitting so quietly, yet so firmly on the little pony he had broken and trained for her until safe for her to ride. Ever since the day his nose was broken, and she had come over to play with him, she had possessed him absolutely and entirely, and no tree was ever too high to climb for birds’ eggs for Dorothy; no briars ever too sharp to hunt for the berries and flowers and nuts she liked the best, and no trouble ever too great to take, if only she were pleased; but it was simply as comrades, as boy and girl, that they had played and quarreled and made up again, but to-day it was different. Bobbie felt it, but did not understand—he only had a fierce desire to take that gawk of a fellow, John Coxe, away with him—he would be finding all the flowers that Dorothy loved, and would get all the chinquapins and chestnuts from Pebble Hollow now, and he would be far, far away. They had both been shy and unlike themselves last night. Bobbie had slipped over early to tell her good-bye, and they had stayed down at the spring until almost dark and talked over all the foolish little nothings that neither was interested in, and Bobbie had almost kicked out the toe of his boot against the pebbles trying to appear natural. “I’m awfully sorry you’re going,” said Dorothy, at last, making a desperate effort, however, to look as if she did not mind much. “There won’t be anything to do now except to think about Christmas, and after Christmas the summer, and that seems like a hundred years off,” and as the blankness all came over her, she threw herself down on the grass and forgot to make believe anything except that she was lonely and miserable, and didn’t want Bobbie to go, and in a minute he was down there beside her, and both were fighting desperately hard to keep back the tears, and Bobbie tried to say something to her and he couldn’t—he could only choke and then get angry with himself, and then he told her he must go, and he put his arms around her and kissed her.