John took it as the latter, and rose.
His hand was on the door--but he could not go.
"Miss March," he said, "perhaps I may never see you again--at least, never as now.

Let me look once more at that wrist which was hurt." Her left arm was hanging over the sofa--the scar being visible enough.
John took the hand, and held it firmly.
"Poor little hand--blessed little hand! May God bless it evermore." Suddenly he pressed his lips to the place where the wound had been--a kiss long and close, such as only a lover's kiss could be.

Surely she must have felt it--known it.
A moment afterward, he was gone.
That day Miss March departed, and we remained at Enderley alone..