"All right," he said. "Good-by."

If his tone was harsh and curt he could not help that. It was all he

could say and the only possible fashion of saying it. He wanted to cry

aloud his pain, the yearning ache that filled him, and he could not,

would not--no more than he would have whined under pure physical hurt.

But when he heard the faint rustle of her cotton dress and her step

outside he put his face on his hands and took his breath with a

shuddering sigh.

At that, he was mistaken. Sophie had not gone. There was the quick,

light pad of her feet on the floor, her soft warm hands closed suddenly

about his neck, and he looked up into eyes bright and wet. Her face

dropped to a level with his own.

"I'm so sorry, big man," she whispered, in a small, choked voice. "It

hurts me too."

He felt the warm moist touch of her lips on his cheek, the faint

exhalation of her breath, and while his arms reached swiftly,

instinctively to grasp and hold her close, she was gone. And this time

she did not come back.




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