And now, in place of going on in the old way that had always seemed good enough to him before he knew anything better, mulling about, getting his own meals, with only one thought, one ambition in the world—­the success of his crops and the acquisition of more land that he might some day in the dim future have a few thousands laid by—­he would always be wanting something he could never get without her:  more knowledge of the things that made life fuller and wider and broader, the things that she prized and had known from her childhood.

It was cruel and unfair of her to have awakened the desire in him only to abandon him.  To have held the cup of knowledge to his lips for one brief instant and then leave him to go through life with his thirst unslaked!  Not that she was intentionally cruel.  No, he thought he knew all of her little faults of temper and of pride by this.  Her heart was too kindly to let her wound him knowingly, witness her tenderness to poor Mrs. Sharp only this afternoon.  But it hurt, none the less.  She had said that she had not known he wanted love.  How should she have guessed it?

But the real thing that tortured him most was the fact that he wanted her, her, her.  She had been his, his woman.  No other woman in this broad earth could take her place.

A little sound like a groan escaped him.

“You’ll think of me sometimes, my girl, won’t you?” he said huskily.

“I don’t suppose I shall be able to help it.”  She smiled at him over her shoulder, as she crossed the room to restore her basket to its place.

“I was an ignorant, uneducated man.  I didn’t know how to treat you properly.  I wanted to make you happy, but I didn’t seem to know just how to do it.”

“You’ve never been unkind to me, Frank.  You’ve been very patient with me!”

“I guess you’ll be happier away from me, though.  And I’ll be able to think that you’re warm and comfortable and at home, and that you’ve plenty to eat.”

“Do you think that’s all I want?” she suddenly flashed at him.

He gave her a quick glance and looked away immediately.

“I couldn’t expect you to stay on here, not when you’ve got a chance of going back to the old country.  This life is all new to you.  You know that one.”

“Oh, yes, I know it:  I should think I did!” She gave a little mirthless laugh, and went over to her chair again.

“At eight o’clock every morning a maid will bring me tea and hot water.  And I shall get up, and I shall have breakfast.  And, presently, I shall interview the cook, and I shall order luncheon and dinner.  And I shall brush the coats of Mrs. Hubbard’s little dogs and take them for a walk on the common.  All the paths on the common are asphalted, so that elderly gentlemen and lady’s companions shan’t get their feet wet.”

“Gee, what a life!”

She hardly gave him time for his exclamation.  As she went on, mirth, scorn, hatred and dismay came into her voice, but she was unconscious of it.  For the moment, everything else was forgotten but the vivid picture which memory conjured up for her and which she so graphically described.