She told him: "Well, but of course you need. Of course I want you to. Oh, isn't that jus' what a girl wants to hear, Arthur? Why, haven't I laid awake at night, loving you over and over, and thought how it would be to hear you say it! Do jus' say it to me, dear." Not to deceive her!--not even to pretend he loved her as she understood love! Ah, here at the stake was his vow--caught, brought at last to the burning. Evasions had saved it, hidden it, preserved it to him unbroken: here it was dragged to the open. As he had nerved himself to try to tell her, so now he strengthened himself to hold to his resolution. Ah, as at enticement of her funny little ways he could not resist her, so now, by sudden yearning in her cry, fear to lose her overcame him. She suddenly had change of her fresh young voice; she suddenly, as he waited, and she felt his arms relax, most passionately was pressed against him, and suddenly, with a break, in a cry, entreatingly besought him: "Ah, do jus' put your arms around me, dear, and hold me close and say you love me. Do!" Why not? How not? Thrice fool, thrice fool to hesitate! These that she asked were only words, and all his plans and all his happiness at stake upon them. This not the deeper step--nothing irrevocable here. Who, with such as Essie, would scruple as he scrupled? Who such a fool? Who had suffered of life as he had suffered? Who, in his case, would hold away relief as he was holding it? She should decide. He'd hold to that. By God, by God, he'd seal her to him first! He said: "I love you, Essie." Holding her, he could feel the sigh she gave run through her as though all her spirit trembled in her ecstasy. She whispered: "Put your face down on mine." He put his cheek to hers. Her cheek was wet. "Are you crying, Essie?" She pressed closer to him. "Why are you crying?" She murmured: "Well, haven't I wanted this! Isn't it what I've always wanted! Say it again, dear. With your face on mine and with your arms around me say it." "I love you, Essie." Only words--no harm in that. Only words! At Whitecliffe he'd tell her, and she, as he'd sworn, should decide. Only words--only words, but he'd not lose her now! As they walked home, he posted his letter. CHAPTER X THE DREAM I "Registered letter for you," cried Essie. "My goodness if there isn't!" This was in the little sitting-room of the Whitecliffe Sands lodgings--the fifth morning there; Mr. Bickers expected on the morrow; Mr. Wriford, as had been arranged when he was invited for the blow by the sea that would do him a world of good, supposed to be leaving on the same day; and Essie, as they walked the parade together before breakfast, in highest state of excitement and mystification at Arthur's insistence that their secret should be kept till then and then should be revealed--if Essie wished it.