"Why, Jeff," she said, with pleasure in her tones. "I am so glad to see you. I have been wondering why you had not come before." "I did not think you would want to see me yet," he said hurriedly. "I have thought about you every hour--but I feared to intrude." "_You_ couldn't intrude," she said gently. "Yes, I have wanted to see you, Jeff. Come into the library." He followed her into the room where they had always sat in his rare calls. Sara lighted the lamp on the table. As the light shot up she stood clearly revealed in it--a tall, slender woman in a trailing gown of grey. Even a stranger, not knowing her age, would have guessed it to be what it was, yet it would have been hard to say what gave the impression of maturity. Her face was quite unlined--a little pale, perhaps, with more finely cut outlines than those of youth. Her eyes were clear and bright; her abundant brown hair waved back from her face in the same curves that Jeffrey had noted in the purple-gowned child of six, under the pines. Perhaps it was the fine patience and serenity in her face that told her tale of years. Youth can never acquire it. Her eyes brightened when she saw the mayflowers he carried. She came and took them from him, and her hands touched his, sending a little thrill of joy through him. "How lovely they are! And the first I have seen this spring. You always bring me the first, don't you, Jeff? Do you remember the first day we spent picking mayflowers together?" Jeff smiled. Could he forget? But something held him back from speech. Sara put the flowers in a vase on the table, but slipped one starry pink cluster into the lace on her breast. She came and sat down beside Jeffrey; he saw that her beautiful eyes had been weeping, and that there were lines of pain around her lips. Some impulse that would not be denied made him lean over and take her hand. She left it unresistingly in his clasp. "I am very lonely now, Jeff," she said sadly. "Father has gone. I have no friends left." "You have me," said Jeffrey quietly. "Yes. I shouldn't have said that. You are my friend, I know, Jeff. But, but--I must leave Pinehurst, you know." "I learned that tonight for the first time," he answered. "Did you ever come to a place where _everything_ seemed ended--where it seemed that there was nothing--simply nothing--left, Jeff?" she said wistfully. "But, no, it couldn't seem so to a man. Only a woman could fully understand what I mean. That is how I feel now. While I had Father to live for it wasn't so hard. But now there is nothing. And I must go away." "Is there anything I can do?" muttered Jeffrey miserably. He knew now that he had made a mistake in coming tonight; he could not help her. His own pain had unmanned him. Presently he would say something foolish or selfish in spite of himself. Sara turned her eyes on him.