"_You_ here!" he exclaimed in abrupt astonishment, and (as it sounded to my ear) alarm. "What did you come into this dreary portion of the grounds for, and at this hour? I have already warned you not to do it." I told him quite humbly how it was: that I had got into it without knowing, after losing my way. Humbly, because he seemed to be in anger at my disobedience. "I had better take you out of it," he said, drawing my arm within his, without the ceremony of asking leave. "When dusk approaches, you must confine your rambles to the open walk, Miss Hereford." "Indeed, yes. This has been a lesson to me. But it seemed quite light outside." He went on without another word, walking as though he were walking for a wager; almost dragging me, so swift was his pace. The dark boughs meeting overhead, the late hour, the still atmosphere, imparted altogether a sensation of strange dreariness. All at once a curious thing occurred. What, I scarcely know to this day. I saw nothing; I heard nothing; but Mr. Chandos apparently did, for he stopped short, and his face became as one living terror. At this portion of the walk there was no outlet on either side; the trees and the low dwarf shrubs around them were too thickly planted. His eyes and ears alike strained—not that he could see far, for the walk wound in and out—Mr. Chandos stood; then he suddenly drew me close against those said trees, placed himself before me, and bent my face down upon his breast, so that I could see nothing. "You will be safe thus; I will take care of you," he whispered, the words trembling as they left his hot lips. "Hush! Be still, for the love of Heaven." So entirely was I taken by surprise, so great was my alarm, that "still" I kept, unresistingly; there as he placed and held me. I heard measured footsteps advance, pass us—they must have touched him—and go on their way. Mr. Chandos's heart was beating more violently than is common to man, and as the steps went by, he clasped me with almost a painful pressure; so that to look up, had I been so inclined, was impossible. When the sound of the footsteps had died away, he raised his head, went on a few yards up the walk, and drew me into one of the narrow intersecting paths, holding still my face near to him. His own was deadly white. Then he released my head, just a little. "Anne, I could not help it. You must forgive me." The name, Anne—the first time he had called me by it—sent a whole rush of joy through my veins. What with that, what with the emotion altogether, what with the fright, I burst into tears. "You are angry with me!" "Oh, no, not angry. Thank you for sheltering me: I am sure you must have had good cause. I am only frightened." "Indeed, I had cause," he replied, in a passionate sort of wail. "But you are safe now. I wish—I wish I could shelter you through life." He must have felt my heart beat at the words; he must; swifter, far, than his had done just now. "But what was the danger?" I took courage to ask.