I think I said "Oh!" It didn't seem as if any other words would come at first. Such a rush of joy filled my heart, that I was almost afraid to look up in his face. I didn't want him to see all I felt. But I believe he did. "Poor little Kitty!" said he. "So you are glad to see me, eh?" "Oh—glad!" I said, and stopped again. "And I'm glad to see you. So we're even there," said he. I wonder now that the words could satisfy me: yet they did. "How ever did you come here?" I asked him. "How? Why, by train part of the way, and the rest I walked," said he. "No, I didn't come to Claxton Station. I wanted a word with you, and nobody else. I should have been too well known at Claxton Station." Then he stood and looked at me. "Kitty, you are prettier than ever," says he. "You dear little thing! I've never seen a lovelier girl. No, never. When I saw you just now, with your back against the tree in the sunshine, you looked just like a little angel," says he. I suppose it was natural I should be pleased with this rubbish, being, as I was, only a silly girl, and nothing at all of the angel in me. I might have told him it wasn't, to my knowledge, the way of angels to stand leaning against tree-trunks, doing nothing. But I only dropped my eyes, and felt happy. "Just like a little angel," says he again. "I like you to think me pretty," I said, in a whisper. And then, with a start, I went on: "But you are too late. Mary is gone." "Yes, I know," said he. "If I'd come to see Mary, I should have come to Claxton Station, and not have walked six miles for nothing." I'd forgotten that for the moment. "Kitty, I mustn't stay long," said he. "I've something very particular to say, and I've got to make haste and be off." Such an unhappy look came over his face as he spoke. I was facing the sun, and he had his back to it; but even so I couldn't help seeing his look nor how pulled and haggard he was. It flashed on me that something had happened, and I was frightened, thinking at once of Mary. "I've not seen Mary yet," said he, when I asked. "I have been away for hours. I couldn't see her till I had seen you first. The fact is, Kitty, I'm in dreadful trouble, and if you can't help me nobody can." "Oh, what can I do? I would do anything," I cried. "Then doesn't Mary know you are here?" "Nobody knows," said he. "I left word I meant to be home as early as I could. But I don't know, I'm sure, whether—" "Then she is all alone there," I said, thinking how I had pictured the two making merry together. "Yes, I suppose so," said he. "It can't be helped. I meant to catch you earlier somehow, and I couldn't. I was watching from the hill, and I saw you go out, and come this way, so went round and got to the common too. But it was ever so long before I could find you." "And if you hadn't found me at all?" I said, wondering. "Then—" and he stopped. "But I have—so that doesn't matter," says he. "Kitty, I want your help." "What help? I'd do anything to help you," I said.