In less than five minutes later Naomi came into the kitchen. She looked pale, and thin, I thought, but she was beauteous beyond all words. I am not going to try and describe her. I am not gifted in writing fine things, for the pen was nearly a stranger to my hands until I began to write this history, besides I doubt if any man, great as he may be, could do justice to Naomi's beauty. I think my heart ceased to beat for a while, and I know that I stood looking at her stupidly, my tongue refusing to move. As for Tryphena, I am sure she understood my feelings, for she went into the dairy, for the which I determined even then that I would some day reward her. "You said you were in danger," said Naomi, speaking first, "and that you wanted to see me. You have asked a hard thing, but I have come." "Miss Naomi," I said, in a low, hoarse voice, "forgive my forwardness, for truly I am unworthy this honour, yet believe me I could not help it. Will you sit down, so that I may try and tell you what is in my heart?" She sat down on the old kitchen settle, and I could not help noticing how beautifully her dark dress fitted her graceful form. At the same time I knew not what to say. I had come because my heart hungered for her, and because love knows no laws. Yet no words came to me, except to say, "Naomi Penryn, I love you more than life," and those I dared not utter, so much was I afraid of her as she sat there. "Are you in great danger?" she asked. "I have breathed no word about that cave, no word to any one. What did it mean?" This gave me an opening, and then I rapidly told her what I have written in these pages. "And will they try and find you?" she asked when I had told my story. "They will hunt me like dogs hunt a fox!" I replied, "so I must find my way to Falmouth, and try and get to sea." Her face was full of sympathy, and my heart rejoiced because she did not seem to think it strange that I should come to her. "And will you have to go soon?" "I must go now," I replied, and then my sorrow and despair, at the thought, dragged my confession from my tongue. "But before I go," I said, "I must tell you that I love you, Naomi Penryn. It is madness, I know; but I loved you when I was in the pillory at Falmouth, and I have loved you ever since, and my love has been growing stronger each day. That is why I have come here, to-night. My heart is hungry for you, and my eyes have been aching for a sight of your face, and I felt I could not go away without telling you, even though I shall never see you again." Her face seemed to grow paler than ever as I spoke, but her eyes grew soft. "I know I am wrong, I ought not to have come in this way," I went on, for my tongue was unloosed now, "but I could not help it; and I am glad I have come, for your eyes will nerve me, and the thought that you do not scorn me will be a help to me in the unknown paths which I have to tread. For you do not scorn me, do you?"