"Then try to be happy," Hazel said persuasively, giving him her hand, "and don’t feel crushed any more. You shall—shall stay with us, you know, often, and we will all be such friends. Still, of course, that will not be for years yet," she added, blushing. But this was too much for his fortitude. He dropped Hazel’s hand, and, turning very pale, he walked a few steps unsteadily, leaned against a tree as if for support, and, sinking his head upon his arm, stood motionless, save for the laboured heaving of his breast. Hazel hovered about him in greatest distress. "Digby, Digby," she cried, "I never thought you would mind so much. You shall see a good deal of me; you shall indeed. I will ask him—I will ask him if he would mind your _living_ with us, if that would comfort you," she added desperately. "But you must wait. We don’t want to—we don’t want to do it yet for years." "Hazel," Digby answered, speaking in short, panting breaths, "you don’t know what you are saying. How should you? You are only a child. But for God’s sake, don’t tantalise a poor wretch like me with such cruel words." "Cruel?" poor Hazel exclaimed, with a sob. "When I am thinking all the time of what I can do and say and promise to comfort you! What can you mean, Digby? And a child indeed! Me a child!" Digby raised his head, and regarded her with haggard eyes. A very tender smile played over his drawn features. He seemed suddenly to have become a grave and thoughtful man—ten years older than the Digby she had known but a few months since. "Yes," he said, quietly persistent, setting his back to the tree, and folding his arms upon his breast, "a child, a sweet, kind, impulsive, gentle little girl; and as such you are distractingly adorable. Well"—he straightened himself and advanced a few paces—"God make the man of your choice worthy of you, and capable of loving you as I would have loved you." "I did not exactly choose him," Hazel said quickly, seeking to justify herself in Digby’s eyes, "he—he chose me. Not but that I like being engaged to him very much," she added hastily, fearful lest he should misunderstand her. But Digby understood her better than she understood herself. He read the new happiness in her face aright—the shy and almost tender light in her eyes when she spoke of Paul. And he envied Paul, as he had envied no man yet, the hour to come when the realisation of her love for him should dawn and break over her soul. He smiled again, a brave smile, and held out his hand. "Good-bye," he said, making a resolute effort to compose himself. "You are just home: I will leave you here." "You won’t come in?" she asked piteously, holding him fast. "No," he said; "I could not face the others to-day. And don’t let me feel I have been a brute and distressed you. I shall get over it some day—and——" "Do you think you will soon?" Hazel asked eagerly, raising tearful eyes to his face.