Coming back across the fields, we lingered a little, watching the loveliness of the early May sunset. For, looking westward, all the land lay drenched in golden haze, which--obliterating the horizon line--faded upward into a faint golden-green sky, across which long webs were drawn of rose and grey. Out of the sunset a soft wind blew; full, as it seemed, of memory and wistful invitation to--well--I know not what. But either that wind or consciousness of our parting on the morrow moved Nellie to open her heart to me more freely than ever before. ‘Dear Mr. Brownlow,’ she said, her eyes still fixed on that loveliness of sunset--‘I want to thank you now, while we are still alone, for all you have done for me. You have, indeed, been a good physician, and I want you to know how much better I am since you came--stronger, and more at peace. I promise you I will do my utmost to keep the ground I have gained, and not fall back into the unworthy state of mind out of which you have brought me. I do not say I am cured.’ She looked up at me, smiling. ‘I do not think you would ask that of me. I have no wish to be--I should, I think, be ashamed to be cured of--of my love. For it would make what was most beautiful seem unreal and untrue. But I am resigned to all--almost all--which has happened. I no longer kick against the pricks, or ask to have things otherwise. I shall not let it make me sour or envious--thanks to you.’ And as she spoke I read in her dear eyes a depth of innocent and trustful affection, which was almost more than I could endure. ‘I have come to a better frame of mind,’ she said. ‘It will last. It shall last, I promise you.’ ‘Then all is well,’ I answered, haltingly. But as I spoke her expression changed. She walked forward along the field path, looking upon the ground. ‘Yes, all--I suppose--is well,’ she repeated. ‘All except one thing--that hurts still.’ ‘And what is that one thing?’ I thought I knew. If I was right, I had a remedy at hand--a desperate one, perhaps, but she was firm enough to bear it now. ‘I always felt how little I had to offer, as against his position, his gifts, and all the attractions of his life at Hover, and still more his life in town. The wonder was he should ever have found me worth caring for at all. But I thought his nature was deeper and more constant, and it hurts--it must always hurt--that he should have forgotten so soon and so entirely as she--his wife--says he has.’ ‘There she lied. He has not forgotten,’ I answered. ‘Here are Hartover’s own words.’ And I gave her the letter I received after my visit to Chelsea. Let her learn the truth, the whole truth, as from his own lips--learn the best and the worst of him, and so meet whatever the future might bring with open eyes. Some twenty yards ahead a stile and gate divided the field of spring wheat we were crossing from the pasture beyond. I must leave Nellie to herself. So I went on and stood, leaning my elbows on the top bar of the gate.