But she had turned now. "Did you go out to the half-house?" she said, with a little movement of surprise. "Yes," he answered, immediately meeting her eyes, and holding them with his own. (They had not precisely the kind of expression which is appropriate to the man who has decided to perform the part of "merely a kind friend." But then Heathcote always looked more than he said.) "I am very sorry," she murmured--"I mean, sorry that you have followed me." "Why are you sorry? You do not know how distressed I was when Mrs. Lorrington told me." "Helen!" said Anne, her eyes falling at the sound of the name. "She does not know where I am; no one knows. They think I have gone to the mountains. But--I could not be at peace with myself, Anne, until I had seen you once more. Do you remember the last time we met, that morning in the garden?" She made a mute gesture which begged for silence; but he went on: "I can never forget that look of yours. In truth, I fear I have done all this, have come all this distance, and in spite of myself, for--another." There was no one behind them; they had the last seat. Anne was thinking, wildly, "Oh, if he would but speak in any other tone--say anything else than that!" Then she turned, at bay. "Mrs. Lorrington told me that you were engaged to her," she said, announcing it quietly, although her face was very pale. "Did she? It is partly true. But--I love _you_, Anne." The last words that Ward Heathcote had intended to speak, when he took that seat beside her, he had now spoken; the last step he had intended to take he had now taken. What did he mean? He did not know himself. He only knew that her face was exquisitely sweet to him, and that he was irresistibly drawn toward her, whether he would or no. "I love you," he repeated. What could be said to such a plain, direct wooer as this? Anne, holding on desperately to her self-possession, and throwing up barriers mentally, made of all her resolutions and duties, her pride and her prayers, drew away, coldly answering: "However you may have forgotten your own engagement, Mr. Heathcote, I have not forgotten mine. It is not right for you to speak and for me to hear such words." "Right is nothing," said Heathcote, "if we love each other." "We do not," replied Anne, falling into the trap. "We do; at least _I_ do." This avowal, again repeated, was so precious to the poor humiliated pride of the woman's heart within her that she had to pause an instant. "I was afraid you would think," she said, blushing brightly--"I was afraid you would think that I--I mean, that I can not help being glad that you--" "That I love you? I do. But just as truly as I love you, Anne, you love me. You can not deny it." "I will not discuss the subject. I shall soon be married, Mr. Heathcote, and you--" "Never mind me; I can take care of myself. And so you are going to marry a man you do not love?"