A silence followed. A whirl of conflicting feelings filled Anne's heart; she turned her face away, blushing deeply, and conscious of it. "I hope she is happy," she murmured at last, striving to speak naturally. "I think she is." Then he stretched out his hands and took hers. "Turn this way, so that I can see you," he said, beseechingly. She turned, and it seemed to him that eyes never beheld so exquisite a face. "My darling, do you love me? Tell me so. If I was not a poor sick fellow, I should take you in my arms and draw your sweet face down upon my shoulder. But, as it is--" He moved nearer, and tried to lift himself upon his elbow. There was a feebleness in the effort which went to Anne's heart. She loved him so deeply! They were both free now, and he was weak and ill. With a sudden impulse she drew nearer, so that his head could rest on her shoulder. He silently put out his hand; she took it in hers; then he closed his eyes as if content. As for Anne, she felt an outburst of happiness almost too great to bear; her breath came and went so quickly that Heathcote perceived it, and raising her hand he pressed it to his lips. Still he did not open his eyes, or speak one word further to the blushing, beautiful woman whose arm was supporting him, and whose eyes, timid yet loving, were resting upon his face. If he had been strong, she would never have yielded so far. But nothing appeals so powerfully to a woman's heart as the sudden feebleness of a strong man--the man she loves. It is so new and perilously sweet that he should be dependent upon her, that her arm should be needed to support him, that his weak voice should call her name with childish loneliness and impatience if she is not there. And so Anne at last no longer turned her eyes away, but looked down upon the face lying upon her shoulder--a face worn by illness and bronzed by exposure, but the same face still, the face of the summer idler at Caryl's, the face she had seen during those long hours in the sunset arbor in the garden that morning, the face of the man who had followed her westward, and who now, after long hopeless loneliness and pain, was with her again, and her own forever. A rush of tenderest pity came over her as she noted the hollows at the temples, and the dark shadows under the closed eyes. She bent her head, and touched his closely cut hair with her lips. "Do not," said Heathcote. She had not thought that he would perceive the girlish little caress; she drew back quickly. Then he opened his eyes. It seemed almost as if he had been trying to keep them shut. "It is of no use," he murmured, looking at her. "Kiss me, Anne. Kiss me once. Oh, my darling! my darling!" And with more strength than she supposed him to possess, he threw his arms round her, drew her lovely face down to his and kissed her fondly, not once, but many times. And she, at first resisting love's sweet violence, at last yielded to it; for, she loved him.