We’ll go on at once. Excuse me, Mr.—uh—what did you say was the name? I’m sorry you feel that way about it—though it’s very commendable, I’m sure. I’ll send to New York at once. Fifth Avenue, did you say? I’ll speak a good word for you. Excuse me. The agent’s calling me. Well, good-bye, and thank you again! Daughter, you better get right into the car. The train’s almost here, and they may have no time to spare.” Mr. Radcliffe hastened up the platform after his son and the agent.

Chapter 9

For Remembrance

Hazel turned her troubled eyes to the man’s face. “My father doesn’t understand. He’s very grateful, and he’s used to thinking money can always show gratitude.”

Brownleigh was off his horse beside her, his hat off, before she finished speaking.

“I beg of you—don’t think of it again,” he pleaded. “It’s all right. I understand. And you understand, too, I’m sure.”

“Yes, I understand,” she said, her eyes filled with the love she hadn’t dared let him see. She was fussing with her rings as she spoke and looked back anxiously at the train heading toward the station.

Her brother, dashing down the platform to their car, called to her to hurry as he passed her, and she knew she’d be allowed only a moment more. She caught her breath and looked at the tall missionary wistfully.

“You’ll let me leave something of my own with you, just for remembrance?” she asked eagerly.

His eyes grew tender and misty.

“Of course,” he said, his voice suddenly husky, “although I’ll need nothing to remember you by. I can never forget you.” The memory of that look in his eyes was meat and drink to her soul for many days afterward. But she met it now steadily, not even flushing at her open recognition of his love.

“This is mine,” she said. “My father bought it for me when I was sixteen. I’ve worn it ever since. He’ll never care.” She slipped a ring from her finger and dropped it in his palm.

“Hurry up, sister!” called young Radcliffe from the car window.

Glancing up, Brownleigh saw Hamar’s face peering from another window.

Hazel struggled to keep back the rising tears. “I must go.”

Brownleigh flung the horse’s reins to a young Indian who stood near, turned, and walked beside her, aware of frowning faces watching them from the car windows.

“And I have nothing to give you,” he said to her in a low tone, deeply moved by what she’d done.

“Will you let me have the little book?” she asked shyly.

His eyes lit up as he reached in his pocket for his Bible.

“It’s the best thing I own,” he said. “May it bring you the same joy and comfort it has often brought me.” And he placed the little book in her hand.

The train backed up and jarred into the private car with a snarling, grating sound. Brownleigh put Hazel on the steps and helped her up. Her father was hurrying toward the steps also, and some train hands were shouting directions. They had only an instant for a handclasp. Then he stepped back to the platform, and her father swung himself on, as the train moved off. She stood on the top step of the car, her eyes on his face and his on hers, with his hat lifted and renunciation on his brow as though it were a crown.

Her aunt Maria’s voice recalled her to herself, while the little station with its primitive setting, straggling onlookers, and one great man slipped past and was blurred into the landscape by the tears she couldn’t hold back.

“Hazel! For pity’s sake! Don’t stand mooning and gazing at that rude creature any longer. You’ll fall off the train and get dramatically rescued again for the natives’ enjoyment. I’m sure you’ve disturbed us enough for one trip.