They met at last quite accidentally, in the quietest road, where their interview was certain not to be disturbed by any intruder. At least, it can scarcely be said that they met; he was jogging wearily, determinedly along, thinking how he never saw her, and how he must see her, once at least, before the end of all things, when suddenly the grey frock he knew so well appeared round the corner of a cross road, and Mary, not seeing him, went on before him, tranquilly, on her way home. The curate’s heart stood still. Should he, now that the matter was in his own hands, put off the crisis? Should he have it out now once for all? After standing still for that one moment, his heart bounded up into his throat, wildly beating, and in a long stride or two Mr. Asquith was at Mary’s side. And now for the vials of wrath that were to be poured out, the passion of love and reproach that was to end all their intercourse, and with it that glimpse of a sweeter life which had come suddenly to the curate in Horton! But when he came up with her he was breathless, partly from haste, partly from agitation, and it was Mary who said the first word. She looked up into his face surprised and smiling, with a sweetness that went to his very heart. There was no guilty consciousness in her eyes. She did not look at him as one who had sinned against him, as one who felt that he had something to reproach her with, but with a look of pleasure, as if she were quite happy in this unexpected meeting. “Oh, Mr. Asquith, is it you? What a long time it is since I have seen you!” she said, in her pleasant voice. “It is a long time,” said the curate, panting: and then he added, “I fear I have made you change your hours and your habits, which is more than I am worth.” “Change my hours and my----. I haven’t got any hours or habits,” cried Mary, “and indeed I don’t know what you mean.” “Oh, Miss Mary!” he cried. I don’t think he knew her surname at all, or if he once knew it he had forgotten it, for Mary was the only name he ever heard given to her. “Oh, Miss Mary!” he cried, “I never meet you now in any of the cottages wherever I go: and I know how that is. I know that you have seen what was going on in my presumptuous mind: but there was no presumption in it, if you only knew. I know very well I am poor--as poor as--as poor as a church mouse, as people say,--too poor to ask any woman to share my miserable fortunes. Don’t, don’t for heaven’s sake be afraid of me! If I can’t help thinking of you, at least I can help saying it. I gave up my visiting when I saw what was coming: but you spoke to me yourself on that subject. You said, had a man a right to neglect his duty for the sake of--for the sake of---- And I knew that what you said was just. From that day I made up my mind to go on with all my usual visiting, and to go on seeing you, which was always sweet though cruel; to go on as if it did not matter, only never to say a word----”