Oh, Poleon, if you only knew--" He drew a long breath.

When he spoke his voice had the timbre of some softly played instrument, and a tremor ran through his words.
"No! I don' know w'at kin' of love is dis, for sure.

De kin' of love I know is de kin' I sing 'bout in my songs; I s'pose it's different breed to yours, an' I'm begin to see it don' live nowhere but on dem songs of mine.

Dere's long tarn' I waste here now--five year--but to-morrow I go again lookin' for my own countree." "Poleon!" she cried, looking up with startled eyes.

"Not to-morrow, but Sunday--we will go together." He shook his head.