"Before I saw you the last time, last spring, I meant to ask you to marry me. When I did see you, something had happened to make that impossible. It had not only made it impossible, but it made me unable even to explain. I shall never forget that strange hour I spent with you. You knew that something was the matter. But I couldn't tell you. I thought then I never could. Seeing you, as I have to-night, I realized that I couldn't wait another hour to tell you. But, even now, I don't feel that I can explain. There's only one thing I am sure of--that I must say this much: All my seeking of you, last winter, meant the full intent and purpose to win you, if I could. And--you can never know what it meant to me to give it up." The last words were almost below his breath, but she heard them, heard the uncontrollable, passionate ache of them. Plainer than the words themselves this quality in them spoke for him. For a moment there was silence between them again. Then he went on: "I can't ask--I don't ask--a word from you in answer. Neither can I let myself say more than I am saying. It wouldn't be fair to you, however you might feel. And I want you to believe this--that not to say more takes every bit of manhood I have." Silence again. Then, from the woman beside him, in the clearest, low voice, with an inflection of deep sweetness: "Thank you, Dr. Leaver." Suddenly he turned upon the bench--he had been staring straight before him. He bent close, looked into her shadowy face for a moment, then found her hand, where it lay in her lap, lifted it in both his own, and pressed it, for a long, tense moment, against his lips. She felt the contact burn against the cool flesh, and it made intelligible all that he would not allow himself to say, in terms which no woman could mistake. Then he sprang up from the bench. "Will you walk as far as the house with me?" he asked, gently. "Or shall I leave you here? It is late: I don't quite like to leave you here alone." "I will go with you," she answered, and, rising, drew her skirts about her. He stood beside her for a moment, looking down at her white figure, outlined against the darkness behind them. She heard him take one deep, slow inspiration, like a swimmer who fills his lungs before plunging into the water; she heard the quick release of the breath, followed by his voice, saying, with an effort at naturalness: "If I had such a place as this, where I'm staying, I should be tempted to bring out a blanket and sleep in it to-night." "One might do worse," she answered. "These branches have been so long untrimmed that it takes a heavy shower to dampen the ground beneath."