od bye.

He felt no resentment against Eve, although her note would have supplied
sufficient excuse. He didn't quite know what he did feel. He had striven
the evening before to diagnose his condition, with the result that he
had decided that his heart was not broken, although there was a
peculiar dull aching sensation there that he fancied was destined to
grow worse before it got better. So far, what seemed to trouble him most
was leaving the cottage and Eden Village. He had grown very fond of
both. Already they seemed far more like home to him than Craig's Camp or
any place he had known. There had been nothing in that brief,
unsatisfactory note intimating that he was expected to leave Eden
Village, but he was quite sure that his departure would be the best
thing for all concerned. The Doctor, to whom he had confided his plan,
had thought differently, and had begged him to wait and see if things
didn't change. The Doctor was a mighty good sort, but--well, he hadn't
read Eve's note!

He wasn't leaving Eden Village for good and all. There was comfort in
that thought. Some day, probably next summer, he would come back. By
that time he would have gotten over it in all probability. Until such
time Mr. Zenas Prout and Zephania, in fact the whole Prout family, there
to take care of the cottage. Zephania was to sweep it once a month from
top to bottom. Wade smiled. He hadn't suggested such care as that, but
Zephania had insisted. Zephania, he reflected with a feeling of
gratitude, had been rather cut up about his departure.

Of course it was nobody's fault but his own. He had deliberately fallen
in love, scorning consequences. Now he was staring at the consequences
and didn't like their looks. Thank Heaven, he was a worker, and there
was plenty of work to do. Whitehead and the others out there would be
surprised to see him coming into camp again so soon. Well, that was
nothing. Perhaps, too, it was just as well he was going back early.
There was the new shaft-house to get up, and the sooner that was ready
the sooner they could work the new lead. He raised his head, conscious
of a disturbing factor, and then arose and closed the door into the
hall. Closing the door muffled the strains that floated down from
upstairs, where Zephania, oppressed, but defiant of sorrow, was singing:

"'My days are gliding swiftly by,
And I, a pilgrim stranger,
Would not detain them as they fly!
Those hours of toil and danger.'"

A