“The last thing I tell you,” she said, “the thing I want you to remember, is this, that, though I do not care—­I want to care.”

Ainsley caught at her hand and, to the delight of the crew of a passing tug-boat, kissed it rapturously.  His face was radiant.  The fact of parting from her had caused him real suffering, had marked his face with hard lines.  Now, hope and happiness smoothed them away and his eyes shone with his love for her.  He was trembling, laughing, jubilant.

“And if you should!” he begged.  “How soon will I know?  You will cable,” he commanded.  “You will cable ‘Come,’ and the same hour I’ll start toward you.  I’ll go home now,” he cried, “and pack!”

The girl drew away.  Already she regretted the admission she had made.  In fairness and in kindness to him she tried to regain the position she had abandoned.

“But a change like that,” she pleaded, “might not come for years, may never come!” To recover herself, to make the words she had uttered seem less serious, she spoke quickly and lightly.

“And how could I cable such a thing!” she protested.  “It would be far too sacred, too precious.  You should be able to feel that the change has come.”

“I suppose I should,” assented Ainsley, doubtfully; “but it’s a long way across two oceans.  It would be safer if you’d promise to use the cable.  Just one word:  ‘Come.’”

The girl shook her head and frowned.

“If you can’t feel that the woman you love loves you, even across the world, you cannot love her very deeply.”

“I don’t have to answer that!” said Ainsley.

“I will send you a sign,” continued the girl, hastily; “a secret wireless message.  It shall be a test.  If you love me you will read it at once.  You will know the instant you see it that it comes from me.  No one else will be able to read it; but if you love me, you will know that I love you.”

Whether she spoke in metaphor or in fact, whether she was “playing for time,” or whether in her heart she already intended to soon reward him with a message of glad tidings, Ainsley could not decide.  And even as he begged her to enlighten him the last whistle blew, and a determined officer ordered him to the ship’s side.

“Just as in everything that is beautiful,” he whispered eagerly, “I always see something of you, so now in everything wonderful I will read your message.  But,” he persisted, “how shall I be sure?”

The last bag of mail had shot into the hold, the most reluctant of the visitors were being hustled down the last remaining gangplank.  Ainsley’s state was desperate.

“Will it be in symbol, or in cipher?” he demanded.  “Must I read it in the sky, or will you hide it in a letter, or—­where?  Help me!  Give me just a hint!”

The girl shook her head.

“You will read it—­in your heart,” she said.

From the end of the wharf Ainsley watched the funnels of the ship disappear in the haze of the lower bay.  His heart was sore and heavy, but in it there was still room for righteous indignation.  “Read it in my heart!” he protested.  “How the devil can I read it in my heart?  I want to read it printed in a cablegram.”