“Very nearly, not quite. If I had——! It was a dreadful ordeal for both of us. I told him that I didn’t love him. He said he would make me. He pleaded desperately. At last I escaped. I ran here—here where we played as children, where we have talked together so often, where I read your letters. And then, I gave way. I cried—for you. And God had pity on me, and sent you.” Lionel said solemnly: “May God deal with me, Joyce, as I deal with you.” Soon they wandered from the rosy present into a future dark with clouds. Lionel made sure that he could tackle the Parson. He spoke with entire frankness of his father. “He will be disappointed, dearest; we must face that. He may withhold his consent, growl and bark, but he will come round.” “And Lady Margot? She wants you, Lionel. She couldn’t hide that from me.” Lionel blushed. “If she wants me, and I won’t admit it, either to myself or you, it is because she loves excitement and change. She may _think_ she wants me. She ought to marry a swell—a personage. I shall tell her about you to-morrow. We are hunting together.” “When will you tell the Squire and Lady Pomfret?” His face grew distressed. “Joyce, darling, I hate to ask this of you. I—I hope I’m not a coward. But I must seize the right moment. I shall talk with dear old Fishpingle, who knows father better than he knows himself. And because it would be such folly not to use ordinary discretion will you, too, keep this wonderful news from your father till I have spoken to mine?” She remained silent, troubled as he was, trembling a little. He continued urgently: “For both our sakes, Joyce—please! Your father is a proud man, quick-tempered. He couldn’t endure the thought of his daughter being unwelcome anywhere. I should feel as he does. And he would insist upon an immediate recognition of our engagement. There might be a scene, a rupture between Parson and Squire. Think of that!” “I do—I do.” “I dare not speak to mother first, but something tells me she will help us. She loves you. But she would think it her duty to tell father. Indeed, he would never forgive her if she kept such a secret from him.” “Yes, yes, but Lionel, I _must_ tell father. I hate to refuse the first thing you have asked me, but father has been more than father to me. Ever since mother’s death he has tried to take her place. Often I have laughed at him, when he came fussing to my room about my wearing warmer clothes and all that, but I loved him the more for his fidgeting. I must tell him to-morrow morning, after Mr. Moxon has gone.” “He may forbid you to see me.” “You don’t know him. He is proud, yes, but he will sacrifice his pride for me. If I ask him, he will help us. We may have to wait. Do you think I cannot wait for—you?”