“You said you were late, and you are getting later. Run home, there’s a good little boy.” “Why do you laugh at me?” he asked. “Because I am laughing at myself,” she answered, “and you should have your share.” Then very nearly he kissed her, only he was in such a hurry, also the willow log, a large one, was between them; possibly she had arranged that this should be so. So he could only press her hand and depart, muttering something indistinguishable. She watched him vanish, after which she sat down again on the log and really did laugh. Still, it was a queer kind of merriment, for by degrees it turned into little sobs and tears. “You little fool, what has happened to you?” she asked herself. “Are you—are you—and if so, is he—? Oh! nonsense, and yet, something has happened, for I never felt like this before. I thought it was all rubbish, mere natural attraction, part of Nature’s scheme and so on, as they write in the clever books. But it’s more than that—at least it would be if I were—— Besides, I’m ages older than he is, although I was born six months later. I’m a woman full-grown, and he is only a boy. If he hadn’t been a boy he would have taken his advantage when he must have known that I was weak as water, just for the joy of seeing him again. Now he has lost his chance, if he wanted one, for by to-morrow I shall be strong again, and there shall be no more——” Then she looked at the backs of her hands which she could not see because of the gathering darkness, and as they were invisible, kissed them instead, just as though they belonged to someone else. After this she sat a while brooding and listening to the pulsing of her heart, which was beating with unusual strength this night. As she did so in that mysterious hour which sometimes comes to us in English summers, a great change fell upon her. When she sat down upon that fallen tree she was still a girl and virginal; when she rose from it she was a developed, loving woman. It was as though a spirit had visited her and whispered in her ear. She could almost hear the words. They were: “Fulfil your fate. Love and be loved with body and with spirit, with heart and soul and strength.” At length she rose, and as she did so said aloud: “I do not know who or what I have to thank for life and all that makes me, me. But I am glad to have been born, now, who have often wished that I had never been born. Even if I knew that I must pass away to-night, I should still be glad, since I have learned that there is something in me which cannot die. It came when that man kissed my hands, and it will endure for ever.” Godfrey was late for dinner, very late, and what was worse, his father _had_ waited for him. “I suppose you forgot that I dined at seven, not at eight,” was his cold greeting, for Mr. Knight, a large eater like many teetotallers, was one of those people who make a fetish of punctuality at meals, and always grow cross when they are hungry.