day: and some grapes, and bon-bons to make me go down well.'
Her arms hung listlessly. She seemed very miserable about it.
I kissed her on the cheek, kissed a tear that was stealing down.—Then the next moment felt her breast heave and shake against mine, and she sobbed out:
'Oh I wish—you weren't going away: I wish you weren't going away!'
I kissed her again, and at last found voice to scold her gently: telling her that this would not do, and that she would be all right again soon. For we should see one another again soon, and have long walks in the evening again.
'—And learn more Swallow Songs?' asked she, looking up.
'Yes,' I said, 'and all sorts of other things as well.'
—That would be nice: wouldn't it?' she said.
'Yes.—And climb up to the top of Primrose Hill and look at the lights.'
'—Yes, and go up the River some day, as you said once. That would be nice too, wouldn't it?' She had stopped crying at last.
Then, holding her little upturned face in my hands, I kissed her again, first on one cheek and then on the other. And then we said good-night.
But at the door she suddenly turned back to me with her arms half-raised, and said piteously:
'Kiss me again,—do! … I do like you to kiss me so!'
I took her hands and, smiling a little, went and kissed her on the cheek.
'Kiss me on the lips,' she whispered, half giving herself to me.
I kissed her on the lips and drew back.
'… Good … night,' she said.
'Good-night, Rosy, good-night!'
She was gone.
Then trembling came into me again, and I stretched out my arms before me as round something in the air. And then threw them up with an unknown word, and turned away.
'Good-night, Rosebud, good-night.'
