Finally he nerved himself to say calmly: "I thank you, sir, for all you have done--all you have ever done for me and for Allan--and, good-bye!" "Good-bye!" Though there was no hint of unkindness in the old man's voice, something formal in his manner had restrained the other from offering his hand.
Still loath to go without it, he said again more warmly: "Good-bye, sir!" "Good-bye!" This time he turned and went slowly down the dim hall, still making the careful folds in his hat, as if he might presently recall something that would take him back.

At the foot of the stairs he stopped quickly to listen, believing he had heard a call from above; but nothing came and he went out.

Still in the door upstairs was the old man--stern of face, save that far back in his eyes a kind spirit seemed to strive ineffectually.
Across the lawn from her hammock Nancy called to Bernal.

He went slowly toward her, still suffering from the old man's coldness--and for the hurts he had unwittingly put upon him.
The girl, as he went forward, stood to greet him, her gown, sleeveless, neckless, taking the bluish tinge that early twilight gives to snow, a tinge that deepened to dusk about her eyes and in her hair.

She gave him her hand and at once he felt a balm poured into his tortured heart.