"Forgive me, 'Gene, forgive me," she said, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You deserve more than I can ever give you, dear friend. I did not mean to hurt you----" "It's all over, so let's say no more about it," he said, breathing deeply and throwing up his head. "I'll take keer o' your farm while you're gone, Justine, an' it'll be here in good order when you're ready to come back to it. It'll be kept in good shape for the boy. Don't you ever worry about the place. It's your'n an' I'll take good keer of it for you. You're goin' to ketch the evenin' train?" "Yes," she said gently, "and I may be gone for a long time, 'Gene." "Well," he said with difficulty, "I guess we'd better say good--good-bye. You've lots to do in the house an' I want to do some work in the wagon-shed. Good-bye, Justine; be--be good to yourself." It was the greatest battle that rough 'Gene Crawley had ever waged, but he came out of it without a scar to be ashamed of. "I want to ask you to--to look after Jud's grave, 'Gene," she said, her hand in his. "There is no one else I can ask, and I want it kept better--better than the rest up there. Will you see to it for me?" "I'll--I'll 'tend to it for you, Justine," he said, but his face went pale. For a full minute she looked, speechless, upon the white, averted face of the man whose love was going to its death so bravely, and a great warmth crept into her cold veins--a warmth born in a strange new tenderness that went out to him. A sudden, sharp contraction of the heart told her as plainly as though the message had come in words that the love in this man's heart would never die, never falter. Somehow, the drear, chill prospect grew softer, warmer in the discovery that love could still live in this dead, ugly world, that after all fires were burning kindly for her. There was a thrill in her voice as she murmured, brokenly: "Good-bye, 'Gene, and God bless and keep you." "Good-bye," he responded, releasing her hand. He did not raise his eyes until the door of the cottage closed after her. At dusk David Strong drove away from the little house in the lane, and the Sherrods went with him. 'Gene Crawley stood in the shadow of the barn, his hopeless eyes fastened on the vehicle until it was lost among the trees. A sharp, choking sound came from his throat as he turned those dark, hungry eyes from the purple haze that screened the carriage from view. About him stretched the poor little farm, as dead as his hopes; at his back stood the almost empty barn; yonder was the deserted house from which no gleam of light shone. He was alone. There was nothing left but the lifeless, unkind shadows. Slowly he strode to the little gate through which she had passed. His hands closed over the pickets tenderly and then his lips were pressed to the latch her fingers had touched in closing the gate perhaps for the last time--closing it with him a prisoner until she chose to come back and release him.