Aileen Armagh heard that call, and doubt, suspicion, anger dropped away from her. Instead, trust, devotion, anticipation clothed her thought of him; he was coming to speak the "word" that was to make her future fair and plain--the one "word" that should set him forever in her heart, enthrone him in her life. That word was not "love", but the sacrament of love; the word of four letters which a woman writes large with legitimate loving pride in the face of the world. She sprang to her feet and waited for him; the willows drooped on either side of her--so he saw her again. He took her in his arms. "Aileen--Aileen," he said over and over again between the kisses that fell upon her hair, forehead, lips. She yielded herself to his embrace, passionately given and returned with all a girl's loving ardor and joy in the loved man's presence. Between the kisses she waited for the "word." It was not forthcoming. She drew away from him slightly and looked straight into his eyes that were devouring her face and form. The unerring instinct of a pure nature warned her against that look. He caught her to him--but she stemmed both hands against his breast to repulse him. "Let me go, Champney," she said faintly. "Why should I let you go? Aileen, my Aileen, why should I ever let you go?" A kiss closed the lips that were about to reply--a kiss so long and passionate that the girl felt her strength leaving her in the close embrace. "He will speak the 'word' now surely," she told herself. Between their heart-throbs she listened for it. The "word" was not spoken. Again she stemmed her hands against him, pressing them hard against his shoulders. "Let me go, Champney." She spoke with spirit. The act of repulsion, the ring in her voice half angered him; at the same time it added fuel to desire. "I will not let you go--you love me--tell me so--" He waited for no reply but caught her close; the girl struggled in his arms. It was dawning on her undaunted spirit that this, which she was experiencing with Champney Googe, the man she loved with all her heart, was not love. Of a sudden, all that brave spirit rose in arms to ward off from herself any spoken humiliation to her womanhood, ay more, to prevent the man she loved from deepening his humiliation of himself in her presence. "Let me go" she said, but despite her effort for control her voice trembled. "You know I love you--why do you repel me so?" "Let me go," she said again; this time her voice was firm, the tone peremptory; but she made no further struggle to free herself from his arms.--"Oh, what are you doing!" "I am making the attempt to find out if you love me as I love you--" "You have no right to kiss me so--" "I have the right because I love you--" "But I don't love you." "Yes you do, Aileen Armagh--don't say that again." "I do not love you--let me go, I say." He let her go at last. She stood before him, pale, but still undaunted.