“Merely because, sir, with all your knowledge of womankind, you don’t in the very least apprehend this woman.... O John, didst think I would suffer thee to steal thyself from me, so?” “And why are you here, madame?” “To woo thee,” she answered softly, “to seek thy love.” Sir John started and turned to glance out of the window. “How—how did you learn that I was leaving?” he questioned hastily. “Old Penelope told me ... and, John dear, she gave me a charm; a very potent spell should prevail with thee, an’ my poor pleading may not.” Now, hearing the soft yearning in her voice, conscious of all the new, sweet gentleness of her as, tremulous, wistful, she leaned towards him appealingly, he looked resolutely out of the window. “Spells and charms the most potent, my lady, shall prove of none avail, for my love is surely dead!” “Nay, thou foolish John, perchance it may swoon a little, but ’tis not dead, for love that is of the true sort may never die. And thy love, methinks, is a true love indeed.” “It was,” he corrected; “and you made of it a mock——” “Nay, I did but laugh, John, but not at thy dear love-making.... Oh, indeed, thou’rt the merest man to be so blind! My laughter was by reason o’ the broken ornament, the tumbled chair, my torn gown.... I must ha’ seemed so clumsy ... but the room was so strait and I always feel myself so hugely vast! My laughter, John, was merest hysteria, which was strange in me, for I was never so before.” “Ha—never?” he questioned suddenly. “Never with thee, John.” “The night Death crawled upon me in the hedge?” “And I shielded thy dear body with mine, John ... because I feared for thee, loved thee, and would ha’ died for thee.... And ’twas because of the last five years, the evil I had spoken of thee, the harms I had wickedly tried to work thee ... this was why I would have died for thee, John, this, but never hysteria.... Aye, I know, indeed, I so named it, but this was only because I could think of naught else to retort upon thee with....” “Couldst indeed be so cruel?” he questioned more gently, but with his gaze still averted. “Yet am I kinder than thou,” she answered, “for if thou wilt break my poor heart and ruin my life, I will not suffer thee to break thine own.... So am I here beseeching thee to come back to love and me and the dear Down-country.” “Nay, this cannot be.” “Because I do love thee truly, John.” “This I cannot believe.” “Why, then, John, I am here to follow thee where thou wilt, to beseech thy forgiveness, to supplicate thee to love me a little ... and because I am thine own, now and always, thou dear, brave, kind, cruel, unbelieving, wise and most foolish John! Wilt not look at me even now? Then needs must I use old Penelope’s charm!” Speaking thus, she thrust something into his fingers, and he saw this for the miniature of his long-dead father. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “What o’ this?”