In the meantime, Hugh put on his hat and walked down the winding path to the lake. He bared his head and let the cool night winds fan his fevered brow. The moon in all its grandeur was climbing the eastern sky. Turning aside to a little summer-house, he seated himself and looked through the checkered openings at the twining tendrils of a honeysuckle. The moon’s rays fell aslant on the earthen floor, which was cut into squares by the shadow. He soon grew restless and sauntered out along a path into the thickest part of the grove. The great trees seemed to him to be a battalion of giant soldiers in repose. The winds stirred the limbs, and, as they swayed up and down, moaning in half-stifled sobs, breaking off dry twigs and withered leaves, he fancied that they were “cracking their knuckles at him” in fiendish glee, and, while they pretended to sympathize, they were in fact only laughing at his rejected love. Yes, Marie had laughed at him, thereby confessing a knowledge of his great love, and at the same time trampling it cruelly beneath her feet. After walking for an hour through the woods, he returned somewhat calmed, but filled with a determination to tell Marie at once that life to him was worthless without her reciprocal love. He came to the lake and paused a moment to watch the rippling waves, so beautifully yellowed by the moon’s soft rays that they seemed like liquid gold. He turned, and then stopped suddenly. Immediately in front of him, and standing in the doorway of the summer-house, was Marie. She came toward him, and in solicitous tones inquired if he were ill. Her foot caught on a vine of honeysuckle, and she nearly fell. Hugh caught her in his strong arms and held her passionately to his breast. “Marie, Marie, my darling,” he whispered. “I love you—yes, love you better than life. Can you not see that this great love is driving me desperate and setting my blood on lire? Can you not, will you not, give me a word, a single word of hope?” She struggled to free herself from his fervid embrace, trembling like a captured bird, but her struggles only caused him to press her closer to his beating heart. He knew that the one woman in all the wide world, to whom he had given his all-absorbing, blind affection, was resting in his arms. She ceased struggling, and looked up into his face as if mutely appealing to him. “Oh, my darling, my beloved Marie,” he continued, “can you not tell me that you love me?” His hot breath was on her cheeks. “Pray do not be angry with me,” he went on, wildly; “my heart is sobbing a prayer for your forgiveness; kiss me, dearest, and I shall know that I am forgiven and loved.” For a moment she hesitated, and then, timidly reaching up her plump, white arms, she clasped them about his neck and pressed her lips—soft as the velvet petals of a rose—to his own. It was a clinging, soulful kiss of an innocent girl given with the wealth of her whole heart to the man she loved.